University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Bequest  of 
MARIAN  ALLEN  WILLIAMS 


WHERE  THE  BIUE  BEGINS 


OTHER  BOOKS 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Fiction 

PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS 

THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

KATHLEEN 

TALES  FROM  A  ROLLTOP  DESK 

WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Essays 
SHANDYGAFF 
MINCE  PIE 
PIPEFULS 
PLUM  PUDDING 
TRAVELS  IN  PHILADELPHIA 
THE  POWDER  OF  SYMPATHY 
INWARD  Ho! 
RELIGIO  JOURNALISTICI 

Poetry 

SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 
THE  ROCKING  HORSE 
HIDE  AND  SEEK 

CHIMKEYSMOKE 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  CHINESE 
PARSONS'  PLEASURE 
THE  BOWLING  GREEN 


Sometimes  he  suspected  that  he  loved  them  as  God  does — 
at  a  judicious  distance. 


.^J  WHERE 
THE  -BLUE  -BEGINS 

(       <u 


BY- CHRISTOPHER 


•WITH-  ILLU5TR\TTONS 
SY-ARTHXJR 


c     8  7 

PHILADELPHIA  V — ^.^-~S 

J.B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

LONDON  -  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
FELIX  AND  TOTO 


"/  am  not  free — 

And  it  may  be 
Life  is  too  tight  around  my  shins; 

For,  unlike  you, 

I  can't  break  through, 
A  truant  where  the  blue  begins. 

"Out  of  the  very  element 

Of  bondage,  that  here  holds  me  pent9 
I'll  make  my  furious  sonnet: 

I'll  turn  my  noose 

To  tightrope  use 
And  madly  dance  upon  it. 

"Sol  will  take 

My  leash,  and  make 
A  wilder  and  more  subtle  fleeing — 

And  I  shall  be 

More  escapading  and  more  free 
Than  you  have  ever  dreamed  of  being!" 


COLOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Sometimes  he  suspected  that  he  loved  them 

as  God  does — at  a  judicious  distance  .  Frontispiece 


FACING   PAGE 


If  Mrs.  Spaniel  ever  grew  disheartened  at  the 
washtubs,  he  was  careful  to  remind  her  of  the 
beautiful  phrase  about  the  mystical  washing 
away  of  sin  ,..  •;;  .  *  •  •  •  <».  •  •'  28 

He  realized  that  shopping  is  the  female  paradise      92 

His  alarmed  soul  thrilled  with  panic.  "You 
must  excuse  me  a  moment,  while  I  dress  for 
dinner,"  he  said ,  ,.  148 


vin 


LINE  DRAWINGS 


PAGE 


Fugi  was  a  Japanese  pug,  and  rather  correct  .         5 

Several  of  the  ladies,  who  had  ignored  him 
hitherto   ,.,    ,.,     .     .     ,.     .     .     .     .     ,     ,.,      16 

"Where  does  the  blue  begin?"  Gissing  panted  .       23 

Already  they  were  beginning  to  take  a  pride  in 

trying  to  dress  themselves  .      .     .     .     .,     .:      42 

"What  ought  I  to  do  to  'crucify  the  old  man'?"      52 

That  square-cut  creature  was  undoubtedly  the 

store  detective     .     ,.,     .     .     •>     .     .     ,.,     *      67 

To  tell  her  which  piano  he  thought  had  the  richer 
tone    .     ,.     t.,     ,     .     .     .     .     «     ,*,    ,     •       76 

"Hey!"  he  exclaimed.    "Don't  you  know  smok- 
ing's  forbidden?" |     94 

Golf  foursome  to  regulate  price-maintenance     .     113 

ix 


LINE  DRAWINGS 


PAGE 


The  ruling  against  salesbitches  bobbing  their  hair  117 

"I  have  seen  some  of  your  cloth    .    .    .    which 

looks  very  well    .     .     ."  said  Gissing  humbly  131 

He  heard  the  chase  go  panting  by     ,.,     .     .     .  161 

He  was  a  fine  old  sea-dog    ."  .     .     .     .,    ..,'    .  171 

Mr.  Pointer  was  on  the  bridge,  gazing  steadily 

into  the  distance     k-:    •     .     .     .    ^  ~U    .  186 

The  next  morning  he  sighted  land    .     .    *.  •  \  209 

"I  have  found  God,"  he  said    .     ,     ,     .     .     .  214 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 


CHAPTER 


ONE 


GISSING  lived  alone  (except  for  his  Japanese 
butler)  in  a  little  house  in  the  country,  in  that 
woodland  suburb  region  called  the  Canine 
Estates.     He  lived  comfortably  and  thoughtfully,  as 
bachelors  often  do.     He  came  of  a  respectable  family, 
who  had  always  conducted  themselves  calmly  and 
without  too  much  argument.    They  had  bequeathed 
him  just  enough  income  to  live  on  cheerfully,  without 
display  but  without  having  to  do  addition  and  subtrac- 

1 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tion  at  the  end  of  the  month  and  then  tear  up  the  paper 
lest  Fuji  (the  butler)  should  see  it. 

It  was  strange,  since  Gissing  was  so  pleasantly  situ- 
ated in  life,  that  he  got  into  these  curious  adventures 
that  I  have  to  relate.  I  do  not  attempt  to  explain  it. 

He  had  no  responsibilities,  not  even  a  motor  car,  for 
his  tastes  were  surprisingly  simple.  If  he  happened 
to  be  spending  an  evening  at  the  country  club,  and  a 
rainstorm  came  down,  he  did  not  worry  about  getting 
home.  He  would  sit  by  the  fire  and  chuckle  to  see  the 
married  members  creep  away  one  by  one.  He  would 
get  out  his  pipe  and  sleep  that  night  at  the  club,  after 
telephoning  Fuji  not  to  sit  up  for  him.  When  he  felt 
like  it  he  used  to  read  in  bed,  and  even  smoke  in  bed. 
When  he  went  to  town  to  the  theatre,  he  would  spend 
the  night  at  a  hotel  to  avoid  the  fatigue  of  the  long  ride 
on  the  11:44  train.  He  chose  a  different  hotel  each 
time,  so  that  it  was  always  an  Adventure.  He  had  a 
great  deal  of  fun. 

But  having  fun  is  not  quite  the  same  as  being  happy. 
Even  an  income  of  1000  bones  a  year  does  not  answer 
all  questions.  That  charming  little  house  among  the 

2 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

groves  and  thickets  seemed  to  him  surrounded  by 
strange  whispers  and  quiet  voices.  He  was  uneasy. 
He  was  restless,  and  did  not  know  why.  It  was  his 
theory  that  discipline  must  be  maintained  in  the  house- 
hold, so  he  did  not  tell  Fuji  his  feelings.  Even  when 
he  was  alone,  he  always  kept  up  a  certain  formality 
in  the  domestic  routine.  Fuji  would  lay  out  his  dinner 
jacket  on  the  bed:  he  dressed,  came  down  to  the  dining 
room  with  quiet  dignity,  and  the  evening  meal  was 
served  by  candle-light.  As  long  as  Fuji  was  at  work, 
Gissing  sat  carefully  in  the  armchair  by  the  hearth, 
smoking  a  cigar  and  pretending  to  read  the  paper. 
But  as  soon  as  the  butler  had  gone  upstairs,  Gissing 
always  kicked  off  his  dinner  suit  and  stiff  shirt,  and  lay 
down  on  the  hearth-rug.  But  he  did  not  sleep.  He 
would  watch  the  wings  of  flame  gilding  the  dark  throat 
of  the  chimney,  and  his  mind  seemed  drawn  upward  on 
that  rush  of  light,  up  into  the  pure  chill  air  where  the 
moon  was  riding  among  sluggish  thick  floes  of  cloud. 
In  the  darkness  he  heard  chiming  voices,  wheedling 
and  tantalizing.  One  night  he  was  walking  on  his 
little  verandah.  Between  rafts  of  silver-edged  clouds 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

were  channels  of  ocean-blue  sky,  inconceivably  deep 
and  transparent.  The  air  was  serene,  with  a  faint  acid 
taste.  Suddenly  there  shrilled  a  soft,  sweet,  melan- 
choly whistle,  earnestly  repeated.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  little  pond  in  the  near-by  copses.  It  struck 
him  strangely.  It  might  be  anything,  he  thought.  He 
ran  furiously  through  the  field,  and  to  the  brim  of  the 
pond.  He  could  find  nothing,  all  was  silent.  Then 
the  whistlings  broke  out  again,  all  round  him,  madden- 
ingly. This  kept  on,  night  after  night.  The  parson, 
whom  he  consulted,  said  it  was  only  frogs ;  but  Gissing 
told  the  constable  he  thought  God  had  something  to 
do  with  it. 

Then  willow  trees  and  poplars  showed  a  pallid 
bronze  sheen,  forsythias  were  as  yellow  as  scrambled 
eggs,  maples  grew  knobby  with  red  buds.  Among  the 
fresh  bright  grass  came,  here  and  there,  exhilarating 
smells  of  last  year's  buried  bones.  The  little  upward 
slit  at  the  back  of  Gissing's  nostrils  felt  prickly.  He 
thought  that  if  he  could  bury  it  deep  enough  in  cold 
beef  broth  it  would  be  comforting.  Several  times  he 
went  out  to  the  pantry  intending  to  try  the  experiment, 

4 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

but  every  time  Fuji  happened  to  be  around.  Fuji  was 
a  Japanese  pug,  and  rather  correct,  so  Gissing  was 
ashamed  to  do  what  he  wanted  to.  He  pretended  he 
had  come  out  to  see  that  the  ice-box  pan 
had  been  emptied  properly. 

"I  must  get  the  plumber  to  put  in  a  pukka 
drain-pipe  to  take  the  place  of  that  pan," 
Gissing  said  to  Fuji ;  but  he  knew  that  he 
had  no  intention  of  doing  so.  The  ice- 
box pan  was  his  private  test  of  a  good  ser- 
vant. A  cook  who  forgot  to  empty  it  was 
too  careless,  he  thought,  to  be  a  real  success. 

But  certainly  there  was  some  curious 
elixir  in  the  air.  He  went  for  walks,  and 
as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  houses 
he  threw  down  his  hat  and  stick  and  ran 
wildly,  with  great  exultation,  over  the  hills 
and  fields.  "I  really  ought  to  turn  all  this  energy  into 
some  sort  of  constructive  work,"  he  said  to  himself. 
No  one  else,  he  mused,  seemed  to  enjoy  life  as  keenly 
and  eagerly  as  he  did.  He  wondered,  too,  about  the 
other  sex.  Did  they  feel  these  violent  impulses  to 

5 


Fugl  was 
a  Japanese 
pug,  and 
rather  cor- 
rect 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

run,  to  shout,  to  leap  and  caper  in  the  sunlight?  But 
he  was  a  little  startled,  on  one  of  his  expeditions, 
to  see  in  the  distance  the  curate  rushing  hotly  through 
the  underbrush,  his  clerical  vestments  dishevelled,  his 
tongue  hanging  out  with  excitement. 

"I  must  go  to  church  more  often,"  said  Gissing. 

In  the  golden  light  and  pringling  air  he  felt  excitable 
and  high-strung.  His  tail  curled  upward  until  it  ached. 
Finally  he  asked  Mike  Terrier,  who  lived  next  door, 
what  was  wrong. 

"It's  spring,"  Mike  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  jolly  old  spring!"  said  Gissing, 
as  though  this  was  something  he  had  known  all  along, 
and  had  just  forgotten  for  the  moment.  But  he  didn't 
know.  This  was  his  first  spring,  for  he  was  only  ten 
months  old. 

Outwardly  he  was  the  brisk,  genial  figure  that  the 
suburb  knew  and  esteemed.  He  was  something  of  a 
mystery  among  his  neighbours  of  the  Canine  Estates, 
because  he  did  not  go  daily  to  business  in  the  city,  as 
most  of  them  did;  nor  did  he  lead  a  life  of  brilliant 
amusement  like  the  Airedales,  the  wealthy  people  whose 

6 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

great  house  was  near  by.  Mr.  Poodle,  the  conscien- 
tious curate,  had  called  several  times  but  was  not  able 
to  learn  anything  definite.  There  was  a  little  card- 
index  of  parishioners,  which  it  was  Mr.  Poodle's  duty 
to  fill  in  with  details  of  each  person's  business,  charit- 
able inclinations,  and  what  he  could  do  to  amuse  a 
Church  Sociable.  The  card  allotted  to  Gissing  was 
marked,  in  Mr.  Poodle's  neat  script,  Friendly,  but 
vague  as  to  definite  participation  in  Xian  activities. 
Has  not  communicated. 

But  in  himself,  Gissing  was  increasingly  disturbed. 
Even  his  seizures  of  joy,  which  came  as  he  strolled  in 
the  smooth  spring  air  and  sniffed  the  wild,  vigorous 
aroma  of  the  woodland  earth,  were  troublesome  because 
he  did  not  know  why  he  was  so  glad.  Every  morning 
it  seemed  to  him  that  life  was  about  to  exhibit  some 
delicious  crisis  in  which  the  meaning  and  excellence 
of  all  things  would  plainly  appear.  He  sang  in  the 
bathtub.  Daily  it  became  more  difficult  to  maintain 
that  decorum  which  Fuji  expected.  He  felt  that  his 
life  was  being  wasted.  He  wondered  what  ought  to 
be  done  about  it. 

7 


CHAPTER  TWO 

IT  WAS  after  dinner,  an  April  evening,  and  Gissing 
slipped  away  from  the  house  for  a  stroll.  He  was 
afraid  to  stay  in,  because  he  knew  that  if  he  did, 
Fuji  would  ask  him  again  to  fix  the  dishcloth  rack  in 
the  kitchen.  Fuji  was  very  short  in  stature,  and  could 
not  reach  up  to  the  place  where  the  rack  was  screwed 
over  the  sink.  Like  all  people  whose  minds  are  very 
active,  Gissing  hated  to  attend  to  little  details  like  this. 
It  was  a  weakness  in  his  character.  Fuji  had  asked 
him  six  times  to  fix  the  rack,  but  Gissing  always  pre- 
tended to  forget  about  it.  To  appease  his  methodical 
butler  he  had  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  Fix  Dishcloth 
Rack  and  pinned  it  on  his  dressing-table  pincushion; 
but  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  memorandum. 

He  went  out  into  a  green  April  dusk.  Down  by  the 
pond  piped  those  repeated  treble  whistlings :  they  still 
distressed  him  with  a  mysterious  unriddled  summons, 
but  Mike  Terrier  had  told  him  that  the  secret  of  respect- 

8 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ability  is  to  ignore  whatever  you  don't  understand. 
Careful  observation  of  this  maxim  had  somewhat  dulled 
the  cry  of  that  shrill  queer  music.  It  now  caused  only 
a  faint  pain  in  his  mind.  Still,  he  walked  that  way  be- 
cause the  little  meadow  by  the  pond  was  agreeably  soft 
underfoot.  Also,  when  he  walked  close  beside  the 
water  the  voices  were  silent.  That  is  worth  noting,  he 
said  to  himself.  If  you  go  directly  at  the  heart  of  a 
mystery,  it  ceases  to  be  a  mystery,  and  becomes  only  a 
question  of  drainage.  (Mr.  Poodle  had  told  him  that 
if  he  had  the  pond  and  swamp  drained,  the  frog-song 
would  not  annoy  him.)  But  to-night,  when  the  keen 
chirruping  ceased,  there  was  still  another  sound  that 
did  not  cease — a  faint,  appealing  cry.  It  caused  a 
prickling  on  his  shoulder  blades,  it  made  him  both 
angry  and  tender.  He  pushed  through  the  bushes.  In 
a  little  hollow  were  three  small  puppies,  whining 
faintly.  They  were  cold  and  draggled  with  mud. 
Someone  had  left  them  there,  evidently,  to  perish. 
They  were  huddled  close  together;  their  eyes,  a  cloudy 
unspeculative  blue,  were  only  just  opened. 

"This  is  gruesome,"  said  Gissing,  pretending  to  be 

9 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

shocked.  "Dear  me,  innocent  pledges  of  sin,  I  dare 
say.  Well,  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do." 

He  picked  them  up  carefully  and  carried  them  home. 

"Quick,  Fuji!"  he  said.  "Warm  some  milk,  some 
of  the  Grade  A,  and  put  a  little  brandy  in  it.  I'll  get 
the  spare-room  bed  ready." 

He  rushed  upstairs,  wrapped  the  puppies  in  a 
blanket,  and  turned  on  the  electric  heater  to  take  the 
chill  from  the  spare-room.  The  little  pads  of  their 
paws  were  ice-cold,  and  he  filled  the  hot  water  bottle 
and  held  it  carefully  to  their  twelve  feet.  Their  pink 
stomachs  throbbed,  and  at  first  he  feared  they  were  dy- 
ing. "They  must  not  die!"  he  said  fiercely.  "If  they 
did,  it  would  be  a  matter  for  the  police,  and  no  end  of 
trouble." 

Fuji  came  up  with  the  milk,  and  looked  very  grave 
when  he  saw  the  muddy  footprints  on  the  clean  sheet. 

"Now,  Fuji,"  said  Gissing,  "do  you  suppose  they  can 
lap,  or  will  we  have  to  pour  it  down?" 

In  spite  of  his  superior  manner,  Fuji  was  a  good 
fellow  in  an  emergency.  It  was  he  who  suggested  the 
fountain-pen  filler.  They  washed  the  ink  out  of  it. 

10 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

and  used  it  to  drip  the  hot  brandy-and-milk  down  the 
puppies'  throats.  Their  noses,  which  had  been  icy, 
suddenly  became  very  hot  and  dry.  Gissing  feared  a 
fever  and  thought  their  temperatures  should  be  taken. 

"The  only  thermometer  we  have,"  he  said,  "is  the 
one  on  the  porch,  with  the  mercury  split  in  two.  I 
don't  suppose  that  would  do.  Have  you  a  clinical 
thermometer,  Fuji?" 

Fuji  felt  that  his  employer  was  making  too  much  fuss 
over  the  matter. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said  firmly.  "They  are  quite  all  right. 
A  good  sleep  will  revive  them.  They  will  be  as  fit  as 
possible  in  the  morning." 

Fuji  went  out  into  the  garden  to  brush  the  mud  from 
his  neat  white  jacket.  His  face  was  inscrutable.  Gis- 
sing  sat  by  the  spare-room  bed  until  he  was  sure  the 
puppies  were  sleeping  correctly.  He  closed  the  door 
so  that  Fuji  would  not  hear  him  humming  a  lullaby. 
Three  Blind  Mice  was  the  only  nursery  song  he  could 
remember,  and  he  sang  it  over  and  over  again. 

When  he  tiptoed  downstairs,  Fuji  had  gone  to  bed. 
Gissing  went  into  his  study,  lit  a  pipe,  and  walked  up 

11 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

and  down,  thinking.  By  and  bye  he  wrote  two  letters. 
One  was  to  a  bookseller  in  the  city,  asking  him  to  send 
(at  once)  one  copy  of  Dr.  Holt's  book  on  the  Care  and 
Feeding  of  Children,  and  a  well-illustrated  edition  of 
Mother  Goose.  The  other  was  to  Mr.  Poodle,  asking 
him  to  fix  a  date  for  the  christening  of  Mr.  Gissing's 
three  small  nephews,  who  had  come  to  live  with 
him. 

"It  is  lucky  they  are  all  boys,"  said  Gissing.  "I 
would  know  nothing  about  bringing  up  girls." 

"I  suppose,"  he  added  after  a  while,  "that  I  shall  have 
to  raise  Fuji's  wages." 

Then  he  went  into  the  kitchen  and  fixed  the  dishcloth 
rack. 

Before  going  to  bed  that  night  he  took  his  usual  walk 
around  the  house.  The  sky  was  freckled  with  stars. 
It  was  generally  his  habit  to  make  a  tour  of  his  property 
toward  midnight,  to  be  sure  everything  was  in  good 
order.  He  always  looked  into  the  ice-box,  and  ad- 
mired the  cleanliness  of  Fuji's  arrangements.  The 
milk  bottles  were  properly  capped  with  their  round 
cardboard  tops ;  the  cheese  was  never  put  on  the  same 

12 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

rack  with  the  butter;  the  doors  of  the  ice-box  were  care- 
fully latched.  Such  observations,  and  the  slow  twinkle 
of  the  fire  in  the  range,  deep  down  under  the  curfew 
layer  of  coals,  pleased  him.  In  the  cellar  he  peeped 
into  the  garbage  can,  for  it  was  always  a  satisfaction  to 
assure  himself  that  Fuji  did  not  waste  anything  that 
could  be  used.  One  of  the  laundry  tub  taps  was  drip- 
ping, with  a  soft  measured  tinkle:  he  said  to  himself 
that  he  really  must  have  it  attended  to.  All  these  do- 
mestic matters  seemed  more  significant  than  ever  when 
he  thought  of  youthful  innocence  sleeping  upstairs  in 
the  spare-room  bed.  His  had  been  a  selfish  life  hither- 
to, he  feared.  These  puppies  were  just  what  he  needed 
to  take  him  out  of  himself. 

Busy  with  these  thoughts,  he  did  not  notice  the  iron- 
ical whistling  coming  from  the  pond.  He  tasted  the 
night  air  with  cheerful  satisfaction.  "At  any  rate,  to- 
morrow will  be  a  fine  day,"  he  said. 

The  next  day  it  rained.  But  Gissing  was  too  busy 
to  think  about  the  weather.  Every  hour  or  so  during 
the  night  he  had  gone  into  the  spare  room  to  listen  at- 

13 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tentively  to  the  breathing  of  the  puppies,  to  pull  the 
blanket  over  them,  and  feel  their  noses.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  they  were  perspiring  a  little,  and  he  was  wor- 
ried lest  they  catch  cold.  His  morning  sleep  (it  had 
always  been  his  comfortable  habit  to  lie  abed  a  trifle 
late)  was  interrupted  about  seven  o'clock  by  a  lively 
clamour  across  the  hall.  The  puppies  were  awake, 
perfectly  restored,  and  while  they  were  too  young 
to  make  their  wants  intelligible,  they  plainly  ex- 
pected some  attention.  He  gave  them  a  pair  of 
old  slippers  to  play  with,  and  proceeded  to  his  own 
toilet. 

As  he  was  bathing  them,  after  breakfast,  he  tried  to 
enlist  Fuji's  enthusiasm.  "Did  you  ever  see  such  fat 
rascals?"  he  said.  "I  wonder  if  we  ought  to  trim  their 
tails?  How  pink  their  stomachs  are,  and  how  pink 
and  delightful  between  their  toes !  You  hold  these  two 
while  I  dry  the  other.  No,  not  that  way !  Hold  them 
so  you  support  their  spines.  A  puppy's  back  is  very 
delicate:  you  can't  be  too  careful.  We'll  have  to  do 
things  in  a  rough-and-ready  way  until  Dr.  Holt's  book 
comes.  After  that  we  can  be  scientific." 

14 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Fuji  did  not  seem  very  keen.  Presently,  in  spite  of 
the  rain,  he  was  dispatched  to  the  village  department 
store  to  choose  three  small  cribs  and  a  multitude  of 
safety  pins.  "Plenty  of  safety  pins  is  the  idea,"  said 
Gissing.  "With  enough  safety  pins  handy,  children 
are  easy  to  manage." 

As  soon  as  the  puppies  were  bestowed  on  the  porch, 
in  the  sunshine,  for  their  morning  nap,  he  telephoned 
to  the  local  paperhanger. 

"I  want  you"  (he  said)  "to  come  up  as  soon  as  you 
can  with  some  nice  samples  of  nursery  wall  paper.  A 
lively  Mother  Goose  pattern  would  do  very  well."  He 
had  already  decided  to  change  the  spare  room  into  a 
nursery.  He  telephoned  the  carpenter  to  make  a  gate 
for  the  top  of  the  stairs.  He  was  so  busy  that  he  did 
not  even  have  time  to  think  of  his  pipe,  or  the  morning 
paper.  At  last,  just  before  lunch,  he  found  a  breath- 
ing space.  He  sat  down  in  the  study  to  rest  his  legs, 
and  looked  for  the  Times.  It  was  not  in  its  usual  place 
on  his  reading  table.  At  that  moment  the  puppies 
woke  up,  and  he  ran  out  to  attend  them.  He  would 
have  been  distressed  if  he  had  known  that  Fuji  had  the 

15 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

paper  in  the  kitchen,  and  was  studying  the  HELP 
WANTED  columns. 

A  great  deal  of  interest  was  aroused  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood by  the  arrival  of  Gissing's  nephews,  as  he 


Several  of  the  ladies,  who  had  ignored  him  hitherto 

called  them.  Several  of  the  ladies,  who  had  ignored 
him  hitherto,  called,  in  his  absence,  and  left  extra  cards. 
This  implied  (he  supposed,  though  he  was  not  closely 

16 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

versed  in  such  niceties  of  society)  that  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Gissing,  and  he  was  annoyed,  for  he  felt  certain  they 
knew  he  was  a  bachelor.  But  the  children  were  a 
source  of  nothing  but  pride  to  him.  They  grew  with 
astounding  rapidity,  ate  their  food  without  coaxing, 
rarely  cried  at  night,  and  gave  him  much  amusement 
by  their  naive  ways.  He  was  too  occupied  to  be 
troubled  with  introspection.  Indeed,  his  well-ordered 
home  was  very  different  from  before.  The  trim  lawn, 
in  spite  of  his  zealous  efforts,  was  constantly  littered 
with  toys.  In  sheer  mischief  the  youngsters  got  into 
his  wardrobe  and  chewed  off  the  tails  of  his  evening 
dress  coat.  But  he  felt  a  satisfying  dignity  and  happi- 
ness in  his  new  status  as  head  of  a  family. 

What  worried  him  most  was  the  fear  that  Fuji  would 
complain  of  this  sudden  addition  to  his  duties.  The 
butler's  face  was  rather  an  enigma,  particularly  at  meal 
times,  when  Gissing  sat  at  the  dinner  table  surrounded 
by  the  three  puppies  in  their  high  chairs,  with  a  spin- 
drift of  milk  and  prune-juice  spattering  generously  as 
the  youngsters  plied  their  spoons.  Fuji  had  arranged 
a  series  of  scuppers,  made  of  oilcloth,  underneath  the 

17 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

chairs;  but  in  spite  of  this  the  dining-room  rug,  after 
a  meal,  looked  much  as  the  desert  place  must  have  after 
the  feeding  of  the  multitude.  Fuji,  who  was  pensive, 
recalled  the  five  loaves  and  two  fishes  that  produced 
twelve  baskets  of  fragments.  The  vacuum  cleaner  got 
clogged  by  a  surfeit  of  crumbs. 

Gissing  saw  that  it  would  be  a  race  between  heart 
and  head.  If  Fuji's  heart  should  become  entangled 
(that  is,  if  the  innocent  charms  of  the  children  should 
engage  his  affections)  before  his  reason  convinced 
him  that  the  situation  was  now  too  arduous,  there 
was  some  hope.  He  tried  to  ease  the  problem  also 
by  mental  suggestion.  "It  is  really  remarkable"  (he 
said  to  Fuji)  "that  children  should  give  one  so  little 
trouble."  As  he  made  this  remark,  he  was  speeding 
hotly  to  and  fro  between  the  bathroom  and  the  nursery, 
trying  to  get  one  tucked  in  bed  and  another  un- 
dressed, while  the  third  was  lashing  the  tub  into  soapy 
foam. 

Fuji  made  his  habitual  response,  "Very  good,  sir." 
But  one  fears  that  he  detected  some  insincerity,  for  the 
next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  he  gave  notice.  This  gen- 

18 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

erally  happens  on  a  Sunday,  because  the  papers  publish 
more  Help  Wanted  advertisements  then  than  on  any 
other  day. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  said.  "But  when  I  took  this 
place  there  was  nothing  said  about  three  children." 

This  was  unreasonable  of  Fuji.  It  is  very  rare  to 
have  everything  explained  beforehand.  When  Adam 
and  Eve  were  put  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  there  was 
nothing  said  about  the  serpent. 

However,  Gissing  did  not  believe  in  entreating  a 
servant  to  stay.  He  offered  to  give  Fuji  a  raise,  but  the 
butler  was  still  determined  to  leave. 

"My  senses  are  very  delicate,"  he  said.  "I  really 
cannot  stand  the — well,  the  aroma  exhaled  by  those 
three  children  when  they  have  had  a  warm  bath." 

"What  nonsense!"  cried  Gissing.  "The  smell  of 
wet,  healthy  puppies?  Nothing  is  more  agreeable. 
You  are  cold-blooded :  I  don't  believe  you  are  fond  of 
puppies.  Think  of  their  wobbly  black  noses.  Con- 
sider how  pink  is  the  little  cleft  between  their  toes  and 
the  main  cushion  of  their  feet.  Their  ears  are  like  silk. 
Inside  their  upper  jaws  are  parallel  black  ridges,  most 

19 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

remarkable.  I  never  realized  before  how  beautifully 
and  carefully  we  are  made.  I  am  surprised  that  you 
should  be  so  indifferent  to  these  things." 

There  was  a  moisture  in  Fuji's  eyes,  but  he  left  at  the 
end  of  the  week. 


20 


CHAPTER  THREE 

A  SOLITARY  little  path  ran  across  the  fields 
not  far  from  the  house.  It  lay  deep  among 
tall  grasses  and  withered  brittle  stalks  of  last 
autumn's  goldenrod,  and  here  Gissing  rambled  in  the 
green  hush  of  twilight,  after  the  puppies  were  in  bed. 
In  less  responsible  days  he  would  have  lain  down  on 
his  back,  with  all  four  legs  upward,  and  cheerily 
shrugged  and  rolled  to  and  fro,  as  the  crisp  ground- 
stubble  was  very  pleasing  to  the  spine.  But  now  he 
paced  soberly,  the  smoke  from  his  pipe  eddying  just 
above  the  top  of  the  grasses.  He  had  much  to 
meditate. 

The  dogwood  tree  by  the  house  was  now  in  flower. 
The  blossoms,  with  their  four  curved  petals,  seemed  to 
spin  like  tiny  white  propellers  in  the  bright  air.  When 
he  saw  them  fluttering  Gissing  had  a  happy  sensation 
of  movement.  The  business  of  those  tremulous  petals 
seemed  to  be  thrusting  his  whole  world  forward  and 

21 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

forward,  through  the  viewless  ocean  of  space.  He  felt 
as  though  he  were  on  a  ship — as,  indeed,  we  are.  He 
had  never  been  down  to  the  open  sea,  but  he  had  im- 
agined it.  There,  he  thought,  there  must  be  the  satis- 
faction of  a  real  horizon. 

Horizons  had  been  a  great  disappointment  to  him. 
In  earlier  days  he  had  often  slipped  out  of  the  house  not 
long  after  sunrise,  and  had  marvelled  at  the  blue  that 
lies  upon  the  skyline.  Here,  about  him,  were  the  clear 
familiar  colours  of  the  world  he  knew;  but  yonder,  on 
the  hills,  were  trees  and  spaces  of  another  more 
heavenly  tint.  That  soft  blue  light,  if  he  could  reach 
it,  must  be  the  beginning  of  what  his  mind  required. 

He  envied  Mr.  Poodle,  whose  cottage  was  on  that 
very  hillslope  that  rose  so  imperceptibly  into  sky.  One 
morning  he  ran  and  ran,  in  the  lifting  day,  but  al- 
ways the  blue  receded.  Hot  and  unbuttoned,  he  came 
by  the  curate's  house,  just  as  the  latter  emerged  to  pick 
up  the  morning  paper. 

"Where  does  the  blue  begin?"  Gissing  panted,  trying 
hard  to  keep  his  tongue  from  sliding  out  so  wetly. 

The  curate  looked  a  trifle  disturbed,  He  feared  that 

22 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

something  unpleasant  had  happened,  and  that  his  assist- 
ance might  be  required  before  breakfast. 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  warm  day,"  he  said  politely,  and 
stooped  for  the  newspaper,  as  a  delicate  hint. 


1 'Where  does  the  blue  begin?'9  Gissing  panted 

"Where  does ?"  began  Gissing,  quivering;  but 

at  that  moment,  looking  round,  he  saw  that  it  had 
hoaxed  him  again.  Far  away,  on  his  own  hill  the  other 
side  of  the  village,  shone  the  evasive  colour.  As  usual, 

23 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

he  had  been  too  impetuous.  He  had  not  watched  it 
while  he  ran ;  it  had  circled  round  behind  him.  He  re- 
solved to  be  more  methodical. 

The  curate  gave  him  a  blank  to  fill  in,  relative  to  bap- 
tizing the  children,  and  was  relieved  to  see  him  hasten 
away. 

But  all  this  was  some  time  ago.  As  he  walked  the 
meadow  path,  Gissing  suddenly  realized  that  lately  he 
had  had  little  opportunity  for  pursuing  blue  horizons. 
Since  Fuji's  departure  every  moment,  from  dawn  to 
dusk,  was  occupied.  In  three  weeks  he  had  had  three 
different  servants,  but  none  of  them  would  stay.  The 
place  was  too  lonely,  they  said,  and  with  three  puppies 
the  work  was  too  hard.  The  washing,  particularly, 
was  a  horrid  problem.  Inexperienced  as  a  parent,  Gis- 
sing was  probably  too  proud :  he  wanted  the  children 
always  to  look  clean  and  soigne.  The  last  cook  had 
advertised  herself  as  a  General  Houseworker,  afraid  of 
nothing;  but  as  soon  as  she  saw  the  week's  wash  in  the 
hamper  (including  twenty-one  grimy  rompers),  she 
telephoned  to  the  station  for  a  taxi.  Gissing  wondered 

24 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

why  it  was  that  the  working  classes  were  not  willing  to 
do  one  half  as  much  as  he,  who  had  been  reared  to 
indolent  ease.  Even  more,  he  was  irritated  by  a  suspi- 
cion of  the  ice-wagon  driver.  He  could  not  prove  it, 
but  he  had  an  idea  that  this  uncouth  fellow  obtained  a 
commission  from  the  Airedales  and  Collies,  who  had 
large  mansions  in  the  neighbourhood,  for  luring  maids 
from  the  smaller  homes.  Of  course  Mrs.  Airedale  and 
Mrs.  Collie  could  afford  to  pay  any  wages  at  all.  So 
now  the  best  he  could  do  was  to  have  Mrs.  Spaniel,  the 
charwoman,  come  up  from  the  village  to  do  the  wash- 
ing and  ironing,  two  days  a  week.  The  rest  of  the 
work  he  undertook  himself.  On  a  clear  afternoon, 
when  the  neighbours  were  not  looking,  he  would  take 
his  own  shirts  and  things  down  to  the  pond — putting 
them  neatly  in  the  bottom  of  the  red  express-wagon, 
with  the  puppies  sitting  on  the  linen,  so  no  one  would 
see.  While  the  puppies  played  about  and  hunted  for 
tadpoles,  he  would  wash  his  shirts  himself. 

His  legs  ached  as  he  took  his  evening  stroll — keeping 
within  earshot  of  the  house,  so  as  to  hear  any  possible 
outcry  from  the  nursery.  He  had  been  on  his  feet  all 

25 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

day.  But  he  reflected  that  there  was  a  real  satisfaction 
in  his  family  tasks,  however  gruelling.  Now,  at  last 
(he  said  to  himself),  I  am  really  a  citizen,  not  a  mere 
dilettante.  Of  course  it  is  arduous.  No  one  who  is 
not  a  parent  realizes,  for  example,  the  extraordinary 
amount  of  buttoning  and  unbuttoning  necessary  in 
rearing  children.  I  calculate  that  50,000  buttonings 
are  required  for  each  one  before  it  reaches  the  age  of 
even  rudimentary  independence.  With  the  energy  so 
expended  one  might  write  a  great  novel  or  chisel  a 
statue.  Never  mind :  these  urchins  must  be  my  Works 
of  Art.  If  one  were  writing  a  novel,  he  could  not 
delegate  to  a  hired  servant  the  composition  of  laborious 
chapters. 

So  he  took  his  responsibility  gravely.  This  was 
partly  due  to  the  christening  service,  perhaps,  which 
had  gone  off  very  charmingly.  It  had  not  been  with- 
out its  embarrassments.  None  of  the  neighbouring 
ladies  would  stand  as  god-mother,  for  they  were  secretly 
dubious  as  to  the  children's  origin;  so  he  had  asked 
good  Mrs.  Spaniel  to  act  in  that  capacity.  She,  a 
simple  kindly  creature,  was  much  flattered,  though  cer- 

26 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tainly  she  can  have  understood  very  little  of  the  sym- 
bolical rite.  Gissing,  filling  out  the  form  that  Mr. 
Poodle  had  given  him,  had  put  down  the  names  of  an 
entirely  imaginary  brother  and  sister-in-law  of  his, 
"deceased,"  whom  he  asserted  as  the  parents.  He  had 
been  so  busy  with  preparations  that  he  did  not  find  time, 
before  the  ceremony,  to  study  the  text  of  the  service; 
and  when  he  and  Mrs.  Spaniel  stood  beneath  the  font 
with  an  armful  of  ribboned  infancy,  he  was  frankly 
startled  by  the  magnitude  of  the  promises  exacted  from 
him.  He  found  that,  on  behalf  of  the  children,  he  must 
"renounce  the  devil  and  all  his  work,  the  vain  pomp  and 
glory  of  the  world ;"  that  he  must  pledge  himself  to  see 
that  these  infants  would  "crucify  the  old  man  and  ut- 
terly abolish  the  whole  body  of  sin."  It  was  rather 
doubtful  whether  they  would  do  so,  he  reflected,  as  he 
felt  them  squirming  in  his  arms  while  Mrs.  Spaniel  was 
busy  trying  to  keep  their  socks  on.  When  the  curate 
exhorted  him  "to  follow  the  innocency"  of  these  little 
ones,  it  was  disconcerting  to  have  one  of  them  burst 
into  a  piercing  yammer,  and  wriggle  so  forcibly  that  it 
slipped  quite  out  of  its  little  embroidered  shift  and 

27 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

flannel  band.  But  the  actual  access  to  the  holy  basin 
was  more  seemly,  perhaps  due  to  the  children  imagin- 
ing they  were  going  to  find  tadpoles  there.  When  Mr. 
Poodle  held  them  up  they  smiled  with  a  vague  almost 
bashful  simplicity;  and  Mrs.  Spaniel  could  not  help 
murmuring  "The  darlings!"  The  curate,  less  experi- 
enced with  children,  had  insisted  on  holding  all  three 
at  once,  and  Gissing  feared  lest  one  of  them  might 
swarm  over  the  surpliced  shoulder  and  fall  splash  into 
the  font.  But  though  they  panted  a  little  with  excite- 
ment, they  did  nothing  to  mar  the  solemn  instant. 
While  Mrs.  Spaniel  was  picking  up  the  small  socks 
with  which  the  floor  was  strewn,  Gissing  was  deeply 
moved  by  the  poetry  of  the  ceremony.  He  felt  that 
something  had  really  been  accomplished  toward  "bury- 
ing the  Old  Adam."  And  if  Mrs.  Spaniel  ever  grew 
disheartened  at  the  wash-tubs,  he  was  careful  to  remind 
her  of  the  beautiful  phrase  about  the  mystical  washing 
away  of  sin. 

They  had  been  christened  Groups,  Bunks,  and  Yelp- 
ers,  three  traditional  names  in  his  family. 

Indeed,  he  was  reflecting  as  he  walked  in  the  dusk, 

28 


//  Mrs.  Spaniel  ever  grew  disheartened  at  the  washtubs,  he  was  careful  tc 
remind  her  of  the  beautiful  phrase  about  the  mystical  washing  away  of  sin 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Mrs.  Spaniel  was  now  his  sheet  anchor.  Fortunately 
she  showed  signs  of  becoming  extraordinarily  attached 
to  the  puppies.  On  the  two  days  a  week  when  she 
came  up  from  the  village,  it  was  even  possible  for  him 
to  get  a  little  relaxation — to  run  down  to  the  station  for 
tobacco,  or  to  lie  in  the  hammock  briefly  with  a  book. 
Looking  off  from  his  airy  porch,  he  could  see  the  same 
blue  distances  that  had  always  tempted  him,  but  he  felt 
too  passive  to  wonder  about  them.  He  had  given  up 
the  idea  of  trying  to  get  any  other  servants.  If  it  had 
been  possible,  he  would  have  engaged  Mrs.  Spaniel  to 
sleep  in  the  house  and  be  there  permanently;  but  she 
had  children  of  her  own  down  in  the  shantytown 
quarter  of  the  village,  and  had  to  go  back  to  them  at 
night.  But  certainly  he  made  every  effort  to  keep  her 
contented.  It  was  a  long  steep  climb  up  from  the  hol- 
low, so  he  allowed  her  to  come  in  a  taxi  and  charge  it 
to  his  account.  Then,  on  condition  that  she  would 
come  on  Saturdays  also,  to  help  him  clean  up  for  Sun- 
day, he  allowed  her,  on  that  day,  to  bring  her  own  chil- 
dren too,  and  all  the  puppies  played  riotously  together 
around  the  place.  But  this  he  presently  discontinued, 

29 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

for  the  clamour  became  so  deafening  that  the  neigh- 
bours complained.  Besides,  the  young  Spaniels,  who 
were  a  little  older,  got  Groups,  Bunks,  and  Yelpers  into 
noisy  and  careless  habits  of  speech. 

He  was  anxious  that  they  should  grow  up  refined, 
and  was  distressed  by  little  Shaggy  Spaniel  having 
brought  up  the  Comic  Section  of  a  Sunday  paper. 
With  childhood's  instinctive  taste  for  primitive  effects, 
the  puppies  fell  in  love  with  the  coloured  cartoons,  and 
badgered  him  continually  for  "funny  papers." 

There  is  a  great  deal  more  to  think  about  in  raising 
children  (he  said  to  himself)  than  is  intimated  in  Dr. 
Holt's  book  on  Care  and  Feeding.  Even  in  matters 
that  he  had  always  taken  for  granted,  such  as  fairy  tales, 
he  found  perplexity.  After  supper — (he  now  joined 
the  children  in  their  evening  bread  and  milk,  for  after 
cooking  them  a  hearty  lunch  of  meat  and  gravy  and 
potatoes  and  peas  and  the  endless  spinach  and  carrots 
that  the  doctors  advise,  to  say  nothing  of  the  prunes,  he 
had  no  energy  to  prepare  a  special  dinner  for  himself) 
— after  supper  it  was  his  habit  to  read  to  them,  hoping 
to  give  their  imaginations  a  little  exercise  before  they 

30 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

went  to  bed.  He  was  startled  to  find  that  Grimm  and 
Hans  Andersen,  which  he  had  considered  as  authentic 
classics  for  childhood,  were  full  of  very  strong  stuff — 
morbid  sentiment,  bloodshed,  horror,  and  all  manner 
of  painful  circumstance.  Reading  the  tales  aloud,  he 
edited  as  he  went  along;  but  he  was  subject  to  that  curi- 
ous weakness  that  afflicts  some  people :  reading  aloud 
made  him  helplessly  sleepy :  after  a  page  or  so  he  would 
fall  into  a  doze,  from  which  he  would  be  awakened  by 
the  crash  of  a  lamp  or  some  other  furniture.  The  chil- 
dren, seized  with  that  furious  hilarity  that  usually  be- 
gins just  about  bedtime,  would  race  madly  about  the 
house  until  some  breakage  or  a  burst  of  tears  woke  him 
from  his  trance.  He  would  thrash  them  all  and  put 
them  to  bed  howling.  When  they  were  asleep  he 
would  be  touched  with  tender  compassion,  and  steal  in 
to  tuck  them  up,  admiring  the  innocence  of  each  un- 
conscious muzzle  on  its  pillow.  Sometimes,  in  a  crisis 
of  his  problems,  he  thought  of  writing  to  Dr.  Holt  for 
advice ;  but  the  will-power  was  lacking. 

It  is  really  astonishing  how  children  can  exhaust  one, 
he  used  to  think.     Sometimes,  after  a  long  day,  he  was 

31 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

even  too  weary  to  correct  their  grammar.  "You  lay 
down!"  Groups  would  admonish  Yelpers,  who  was 
capering  in  his  crib  while  Bunks  was  being  lashed  in 
with  the  largest  size  of  safety  pins.  And  Gissing,  dog- 
gedly passing  from  one  to  another,  was  really  too  fa- 
tigued to  reprove  the  verb,  picked  up  from  Mrs. 
Spaniel. 

Fairy  tales  proving  a  disappointment,  he  had  great 
hopes  of  encouraging  them  in  drawing.  He  bought 
innumerable  coloured  crayons  and  stacks  of  scribbling 
paper.  After  supper  they  would  all  sit  down  around 
the  dining-room  table  and  he  drew  pictures  for  them. 
Tongues  depending  with  concentrated  excitement,  the 
children  would  try  to  copy  these  pictures  and  colour 
them.  In  spite  of  having  three  complete  sets  of  cray- 
ons, a  full  roster  of  colours  could  rarely  be  found  at 
drawing  time.  Bunks  had  the  violet  when  Groups 
wanted  it,  and  so  on.  But  still,  this  was  often  the  hap- 
piest hour  of  the  day.  Gissing  drew  amazing  trains, 
elephants,  ships,  and  rainbows,  with  the  spectrum  of 
colours  correctly  arranged  and  blended.  The  children 
specially  loved  his  landscapes,  which  were  opulently 

32 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tinted  and  magnificent  in  long  perspectives.  He  found 
himself  always  colouring  the  far  horizons  a  pale  and 
haunting  blue. 

He  was  meditating  these  things  when  a  shrill  yam- 
mer recalled  him  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

IN  THIS  warm  summer  weather  Gissing  slept  on  a 
little  outdoor  balcony  that  opened  off  the  nursery. 
The  world,  rolling  in  her  majestic  seaway,  heeled 
her  gunwale  slowly  into  the  trough  of  space.     Disked 
upon  this  bulwark,  the  sun  rose,  and  promptly  Gissing 
woke.    The  poplars  flittered  in  a  cool  stir.     Beyond 
the  tadpole  pond,  through  a  notch  in  the  landscape,  he 
could  see  the  far  darkness  of  the  hills.    That  fringe  of 
woods  was  a  railing  that  kept  the  sky  from  flooding 
over  the  earth. 

The  level  sun,  warily  peering  over  the  edge  like  a 
cautious  marksman,  fired  golden  volleys  unerringly 
at  him.  At  once  Gissing  was  aware  and  watchful. 
Brief  truce  was  over :  the  hopeless  war  with  Time  be- 
gan anew. 

This  was  his  placid  hour.  Light,  so  early,  lies  tim- 
idly along  the  ground.  It  steals  gently  from  ridge  to 
ridge;  it  is  soft,  unsure.  That  blue  dimness,  receding 

34 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

from  bole  to  bole,  is  the  skirt  of  Night's  garment,  trail- 
ing off  toward  some  other  star.  As  easily  as  it  slips 
from  tree  to  tree,  it  glides  from  earth  to  Orion. 

Light,  which  later  will  riot  and  revel  and  strike  piti- 
lessly down,  still  is  tender  and  tentative.  It  sweeps 
in  rosy  scythe-strokes,  parallel  to  earth.  It  gilds,  where 
later  it  will  burn. 

Gissing  lay,  without  stirring.  The  springs  of  the 
old  couch  were  creaky,  and  the  slightest  sound  might 
arouse  the  children  within.  Now,  until  they  woke  was 
his  peace.  Purposely  he  had  had  the  sleeping  porch 
built  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  house.  Making  the  sun 
his  alarm  clock,  he  prolonged  the  slug-a-bed  luxury. 
He  had  procured  the  darkest  and  most  opaque  of  all 
shades  for  the  nursery  windows,  to  cage  as  long  as 
possible  in  that  room  Night  the  silencer.  At  this  time 
of  the  year,  the  song  of  the  mosquito  was  his  dreaded 
nightingale.  In  spite  of  fine-mesh  screens,  always  one 
or  two  would  get  in.  Mrs.  Spaniel,  he  feared,  left  the 
kitchen  door  ajar  during  the  day,  and  these  Borgias  of 
the  insect  world,  patiently  invasive,  seized  their  chance. 
It  was  a  rare  night  when  a  sudden  scream  did  not  come 

35 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

from  the  nursery  every  hour  or  so.  " Daddy,  a  keetot 
a  keeto  I"  was  the  anguish  from  one  of  the  trio.  The 
other  two  were  up  instantly,  erect  and  yelping  in  their 
cribs,  small  black  paws  on  the  rail,  pink  stomachs  can- 
didly exposed  to  the  winged  stiletto.  Lights  on,  and  the 
room  must  be  explored  for  the  lurking  foe.  Scratching 
themselves  vigorously,  the  fun  of  the  chase  assuaged 
the  smart  of  those  red  welts.  Gissing,  wise  by  now, 
knew  that  after  a  foray  the  mosquito  always  retires  to 
the  ceiling,  so  he  kept  a  stepladder  in  the  room. 
Mounted  on  this,  he  would  pursue  the  enemy  with  a 
towel,  while  the  children  screamed  with  merriment. 
Then  stomachs  must  be  anointed  with  more  citronella; 
sheets  and  blankets  reassembled,  and  quiet  gradually 
restored.  Life,  as  parents  know,  can  be  supported  on 
very  little  sleep. 

But  how  delicious  to  lie  there,  in  the  morning  fresh- 
ness, to  hear  the  earth  stir  with  reviving  gusto,  the 
merriment  of  birds,  the  exuberant  clink  of  milk-bottles 
set  down  by  the  back-door,  the  whole  complex  machin- 
ery of  life  begin  anew!  Gissing  was  amazed  now, 
looking  back  upon  his  previous  existence,  "o  see  him- 

36 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

self  so  busy,  so  active.  Few  people  are  really  lazy,  he 
thought:  what  we  call  laziness  is  merely  maladjust- 
ment. For  in  any  department  of  life  where  one  is 
genuinely  interested,  he  will  be  zealous  beyond  belief. 
Certainly  he  had  not  dreamed,  until  he  became  (in  a 
manner  of  speaking)  a  parent,  that  he  had  in  him  such 
capacity  for  detail. 

This  business  of  raising  a  family,  though — had  he 
any  true  aptitude  for  it?  or  was  he  forcing  himself  to 
go  through  with  it?  Wasn't  he,  moreover,  incurring 
all  the  labours  of  parenthood  without  any  of  its  proper 
dignity  and  social  esteem?  Mrs.  Chow  down  the 
street,  for  instance,  why  did  she  look  so  sniffingly  upon 
him  when  she  heard  the  children,  in  the  harmless  up- 
roar of  their  play,  cry  him  aloud  as  Daddy?  Uncle, 
he  had  intended  they  should  call  him;  but  that  is,  for 
beginning  speech,  a  hard  saying,  embracing  both  a 
palatal  and  a  liquid.  Whereas  Da-da — the  syllables 
come  almost  unconsciously  to  the  infant  mouth.  So 
he  had  encouraged  it,  and  even  felt  an  irrational  pride 
in  the  honourable  but  unearned  title. 

A  little  word,  Daddy,  but  one  of  the  most  potent,  he 

37 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

was  thinking.  More  than  a  word,  perhaps:  a  great 
social  engine:  an  anchor  which,  cast  carelessly  over- 
board, sinks  deep  and  fast  into  the  very  bottom.  The 
vessel  rides  on  her  hawser,  and  where  are  your  blue 
horizons  then? 

But  come  now,  isn't  one  horizon  as  good  as  another? 
And  do  they  really  remain  blue  when  you  reach  them? 

Unconsciously  he  stirred,  stretching  his  legs  deeply 
into  the  comfortable  nest  of  his  couch.  The  springs 
twanged.  Simultaneous  clamours !  The  puppies  were 
awake. 

They  yelled  to  be  let  out  from  the  cribs.  This  was 
the  time  of  the  morning  frolic.  Gissing  had  learned 
that  there  is  only  one  way  to  deal  with  the  almost  inex- 
haustible energy  of  childhood.  That  is,  not  attempt 
to  check  it,  but  to  encourage  and  draw  it  out.  To 
start  the  day  with  a  rush,  stimulating  every  possible 
outlet  of  zeal ;  meanwhile  taking  things  as  calmly  and 
quietly  as  possible  himself,  sitting  often  to  take  the 
weight  off  his  legs,  and  allowing  the  youngsters  to 
wear  themselves  down.  This,  after  all,  is  Nature's 
own  way  with  man;  it  is  the  wise  parent's  tactic  with 

38 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

children.  Thus,  by  dusk,  the  puppies  will  have  run 
themselves  almost  into  a  stupor;  and  you,  if  you  have 
shrewdly  husbanded  your  strength,  may  have  still  a 
little  power  in  reserve  for  reading  and  smoking. 

The  before-breakfast  game  was  conducted  on  regular 
routine.  Children  show  their  membership  in  the 
species  by  their  love  of  strict  habit. 

Gissing  let  them  yell  for  a  few  moments — as  long  as 
he  thought  the  neighbours  would  endure  it — while  he 
gradually  gathered  strength  and  resolution,  shook  off 
the  cowardice  of  bed.  Then  he  strode  into  the  nursery. 
As  soon  as  they  heard  him  raising  the  shades  there  was 
complete  silence.  They  hastened  to  pull  the  blankets 
over  themselves,  and  lay  tense,  faces  on  paws,  with 
bright  expectant  upward  eyes.  They  trembled  a  little 
with  impatience.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  restrain 
himself  from  patting  the  sleek  heads,  which  always 
seemed  to  shine  with  extra  polish  after  a  night's  rolling 
to  and  fro  on  the  flattened  pillows.  But  sternness  was 
a  part  of  the  game  at  this  moment.  He  solemnly  un- 
latched and  lowered  the  tall  sides  of  the  cribs. 

He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a  gesture  of 

39 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

1 

command.  "Quiet  now,"  he  said.  "Quiet,  until  I 
tell  you!" 

Yelpers  could  not  help  a  small  whine  of  intense  emo- 
tion, which  slipped  out  unintended.  The  eyes  of 
Groups  and  Bunks  swivelled  angrily  toward  their  un- 
lucky brother.  It  was  his  failing :  in  crises  he  always 
emitted  haphazard  sounds.  But  this  time  Gissing, 
with  lenient  forgiveness,  pretended  not  to  have  heard. 

He  returned  to  the  balcony,  and  reentered  his  couch, 
where  he  lay  feigning  sleep.  In  the  nursery  was  a 
terrific  stillness. 

It  was  the  rule  of  the  game  that  they  should  lie  thus, 
in  absolute  quiet,  until  he  uttered  a  huge  imitation 
snore.  Once,  after  a  particularly  exhausting  night,  he 
had  postponed  the  snore  too  long:  he  fell  asleep.  He 
did  not  wake  for  an  hour,  and  then  found  the  tragic 
three  also  sprawled  in  amazing  slumber.  But  their 
pillows  were  wet  with  tears.  He  never  succumbed 
again,  no  matter  how  deeply  tempted. 

He  snored.  There  were  three  sprawling  thumps,  a 
rush  of  feet,  and  a  tumbling  squeeze  through  the  screen 
door.  Then  they  were  on  the  couch  and  upon  him, 

40 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

with  panting  yelps  of  glee.  Their  hot  tongues  rasped 
busily  over  his  face.  This  was  the  great  tickling  game. 
Remembering  his  theory  of  conserving  energy,  he  lay 
passive  while  they  rollicked  and  scrambled,  burrowing 
in  the  bedclothes,  quivering  imps  of  absurd  pleasure. 
All  that  was  necessary  was  to  give  an  occasional 
squirm,  to  tweak  their  ribs  now  and  then,  so  that  they 
believed  his  heart  was  in  the  sport.  Really  he  got  quite 
a  little  rest  while  they  were  scuffling.  No  one  knew 
exactly  what  was  the  imagined  purpose  of  the  lark — 
whether  he  was  supposed  to  be  trying  to  escape  from 
them,  or  they  from  him.  Like  all  the  best  games,  it  had 
not  been  carefully  thought  out. 

"Now,  children,"  said  Gissing  presently.  "Time  to 
get  dressed." 

It  was  amazing  how  fast  they  were  growing.  Al- 
ready they  were  beginning  to  take  a  pride  in  trying  to 
dress  themselves.  While  Gissing  was  in  the  bathroom, 
enjoying  his  cold  tub  (and  under  the  stimulus  of  that 
icy  sluice  forming  excellent  resolutions  for  the  day) 
the  children  were  sitting  on  the  nursery  floor  eagerly 
studying  the  intricacies  of  their  gear.  By  the  time  he 

41 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

returned  they  would  have  half  their  garments  on 
wrong :  waist  and  trousers  front  side  to  rear ;  right  shoes 
on  left  feet;  buttons  hopelessly  mismated  to  button- 
holes; shoelacing  oddly  zigzagged.  It  was  far  more 
trouble  to  permit  their  ambitious  bungling,  which  must 


Already  they  were  beginning  to  take  a  -pride  in  trying  to  dress 

themselves 

be  undone  and  painstakingly  reassembled,  than  to  have 
clad  them  all  himself,  swiftly  revolving  and  garmenting 
them  like  dolls.  But  in  these  early  hours  of  the  day, 
patience  still  is  robust.  It  was  his  pedagogy  to  en- 
courage their  innocent  initiatives,  so  long  as  endurance 
might  permit. 

42 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Best  of  all,  he  enjoyed  watching  them  clean  their 
teeth.  It  was  delicious  to  see  them,  tiptoe  on  their  hind 
legs  at  the  basin,  to  which  their  noses  just  reached; 
mouths  gaping  wide  they  scrubbed  with  very  small 
toothbrushes.  They  were  so  elated  by  squeezing  out 
the  toothpaste  from  the  tube  that  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  refuse  them  this  privilege,  though  it  was  wasteful. 
For  they  always  squeezed  out  more  than  necessary,  and 
after  a  moment's  brushing  their  mouths  became  choked 
and  clotted  with  the  pungent  foam.  Much  of  this  they 
swallowed,  for  he  had  not  been  able  to  teach  them  to 
rinse  and  gargle.  Their  only  idea  regarding  any  fluid 
in  the  mouth  was  to  swallow  it;  so  they  coughed  and 
strangled  and  barked.  Gissing  had  a  theory  that  this 
toothpaste  foam  must  be  an  appetizer,  for  he  found 
that  the  more  of  it  they  swallowed,  the  better  they  ate 
their  breakfast. 

After  breakfast  he  hurried  them  out  into  the  garden, 
before  the  day  became  too  hot.  As  he  put  a  new  lot  of 
prunes  to  soak  in  cold  water,  he  could  not  help  reflect- 
ing how  different  the  kitchen  and  pantry  looked  from 
the  time  of  Fuji.  The  ice-box  pan  seemed  to  be  con- 

43 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tinually  brimming  over.  Somehow — due,  he  feared, 
to  a  laxity  on  Mrs.  Spaniel's  part — ants  had  got  in.  He 
was  always  finding  them  inside  the  ice-box,  and  won- 
dered where  they  came  from.  He  was  amazed  to  find 
how  negligent  he  was  growing  about  pots  and  pans :  he 
began  cooking  a  new  mess  of  oatmeal  in  the  double 
boiler  without  bothering  to  scrape  out  the  too  adhesive 
remnant  of  the  previous  porridge.  He  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  children  are  tougher  and  more 
enduring  than  Dr.  Holt  will  admit;  and  that  a  little 
carelessness  in  matters  of  hygiene  and  sterilization  does 
not  necessarily  mean  instant  death. 

Truly  his  once  dainty  menage  was  deteriorating. 
He  had  put  away  his  fine  china,  put  away  the  linen 
napery,  and  laid  the  table  with  oilcloth.  He  had  even 
improved  upon  Fuji's  invention  of  scuppers  by  a  little 
trough  which  ran  all  round  the  rim  of  the  table,  to 
catch  any  possible  spillage.  He  was  horrified  to  ob- 
serve how  inevitably  callers  came  at  the  worst  possible 
moment.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chow,  for  instance,  drew  up 
one  afternoon  in  their  spick-and-span  coupe,  with  their 
intolerably  spotless  only  child  sitting  self-consciously 

44 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

beside  them.  Groups,  Bunks,  and  Yelpers  were  just 
then  filling  the  garden  with  horrid  clamour.  They  had 
been  quarrelling,  and  one  had  pushed  the  other  two 
down  the  back  steps.  Gissing,  who  had  attempted  to 
find  a  quiet  moment  to  scald  the  ants  out  of  the  ice-box, 
had  just  rushed  forth  and  boxed  them  all.  As  he  stood 
there,  angry  and  waving  a  steaming  dishclout,  the 
Chows  appeared.  The  puppies  at  once  set  upon  little 
Sandy  Chow,  and  had  thoroughly  mauled  his  starched 
sailor  suit  in  the  driveway  before  two  minutes  were 
past.  Gissing  could  not  help  laughing,  for  he  sus- 
pected that  there  had  been  a  touch  of  malice  in  the 
Chows  coming  just  at  that  time. 

He  had  given  up  his  flower  garden,  too.  It  was 
all  he  could  do  to  shove  the  lawn-mower  around,  in  the 
dusk,  after  the  puppies  were  in  bed.  Formerly  he  had 
found  the  purr  of  the  twirling  blades  a  soothing  stim- 
ulus to  thought;  but  nowadays  he  could  not  even  think 
consecutively.  Perhaps,  he  thought,  the  residence  of 
the  mind  is  in  the  legs,  not  in  the  head;  for  when  your 
legs  are  thoroughly  weary  you  can't  seem  to  think. 

So  he  had  decided  that  he  simply  must  have  more 

45 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

help  in  the  cooking  and  housework.  He  had  in- 
structed Mrs.  Spaniel  to  send  the  washing  to  the  steam- 
laundry,  and  spend  her  three  days  in  the  kitchen  instead. 
A  huge  bundle  had  come  back  from  the  laundry,  and 
he  had  paid  the  driver  $15.98.  With  dismay  he  sorted 
the  clean,  neatly  folded  garments.  Here  was  the 
worthy  Mrs.  Spaniel's  list,  painstakingly  written  out 
in  her  straggling  script : — 

MR.  GISHING  FAMILY  WOSH 

8  towls 

6  pymjarm  Mr  Gishing 
12  rompers 

3  blowses 

6  cribb  sheats 

1  Mr.  Gishing  sheat 

4  wastes 

3  wosh  clothes 

2  onion  sutes  Mr  Gishing 
6  smal  onion  sutes 

4  pillo  slipes 

3  sherts 

46 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

18  hankerchifs  smal 

6  hankerchifs  large 

8  colers 

3  overhauls 
10  bibbs 

2  table  clothes  (coco  stane) 

1  table  clothe  (prun  juce  and  eg) 

After  contemplating  this  list,  Gissing  went  to  his 
desk  and  began  to  study  his  accounts.  A  resolve  was 
forming  in  his  mind. 


47 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

THE  summer  evenings  sounded  a  very  different 
music  from  that  thin  wheedling  of  April.  It 
was  now  a  soft  steady  vibration,  the  incessant 
drone  and  throb  of  locust  and  cricket,  and  sometimes 
the  sudden  rasp,  dry  and  hard,  of  katydids.  Gissing,  in 
spite  of  his  weariness,  was  all  fidgets.  He  would  walk 
round  and  round  the  house  in  the  dark,  unable  to  settle 
down  to  anything;  tired,  but  incapable  of  rest.  What 
is  this  uneasiness  in  the  mind,  he  asked  himself?  The 
great  sonorous  drumming  of  the  summer  night  was 
like  the  bruit  of  Time  passing  steadily  by.  Even  in  the 
soft  eddy  of  the  leaves,  lifted  on  a  drowsy  creeping  air, 
was  a  sound  of  discontent,  of  troublesome  questioning. 
Through  the  trees  he  could  see  the  lighted  oblongs  of 
neighbours'  windows,  or  hear  stridulent  jazz  records. 
Why  were  all  others  so  cheerfully  absorbed  in  the 
minutiae  of  their  lives,  and  he  so  painfully  ill  at  ease? 
Sometimes,  under  the  warm  clear  darkness,  the  noises 

48 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

of  field  and  earth  swelled  to  a  kind  of  soft  thunder :  his 
quickened  ears  heard  a  thousand  small  outcries  contrib- 
uting to  the  awful  energy  of  the  world — faint  chim- 
ings  and  whistlings  in  the  grass,  and  endless  flutter, 
rustle,  and  whirr.  His  own  body,  on  which  hair  and 
nails  grew  daily  like  vegetation,  startled  and  appalled 
him.  Consciousness  of  self,  that  miserable  ecstasy, 
was  heavy  upon  him. 

He  envied  the  children,  who  lay  upstairs  sprawled 
under  their  mosquito  nettings.  Immersed  in  living, 
how  happily  unaware  of  being  alive!  He  saw,  with 
tenderness,  how  naively  they  looked  to  him  as  the 
answer  and  solution  of  their  mimic  problems.  But 
where  could  he  find  someone  to  be  to  him  what  he  was 
to  them?  The  truth  apparently  was  that  in  his  inward 
mind  he  was  desperately  lonely.  Reading  the  poets  by 
fits  and  starts,  he  suddenly  realized  that  in  their  divine 
pages  moved  something  of  this  loneliness,  this  exquisite 
unhappiness.  But  these  great  hearts  had  had  the  con- 
solation of  setting  down  their  moods  in  beautiful  words, 
words  that  lived  and  spoke.  His  own  strange  fever 
burned  inexpressibly  inside  him.  Was  he  the  only  one 

49 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

who  felt  the  challenge  offered  by  the  maddening  fer- 
tility and  foison  of  the  hot  sun-dazzled  earth?  Life, 
he  realized,  was  too  amazing  to  be  frittered  out  in  this 
aimless  sickness  of  heart.  There  were  truths  and  won- 
ders to  be  grasped,  if  he  could  only  throw  off  this  wist- 
ful vague  desire.  He  felt  like  a  clumsy  strummer 
seated  at  a  dark  shining  grand  piano,  which  he  knows 
is  capable  of  every  glory  of  rolling  music,  yet  he  can 
only  elicit  a  few  haphazard  chords. 

He  had  his  moments  of  arrogance,  too.  Ah,  he  was 
very  young!  This  miracle  of  blue  unblemished  sky 
that  had  baffled  all  others  since  life  began — he,  he 
would  unriddle  it!  He  was  inclined  to  sneer  at  his 
friends  who  took  these  things  for  granted,  and  did  not 
perceive  the  infamous  insolubility  of  the  whole  scheme. 
Remembering  the  promises  made  at  the  christening, 
he  took  the  children  to  church;  but  alas,  carefully  an- 
alyzing his  mind,  he  admitted  that  his  attention  had 
been  chiefly  occupied  with  keeping  them  orderly,  and 
he  had  gone  through  the  service  almost  automatically. 
Only  in  singing  hymns  did  he  experience  a  tingle  of 
exalted  feeling.  But  Mr.  Poodle  was  proud  of  his  well- 

50 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

trained  choir,  and  Gissing  had  a  feeling  that  the  con- 
gregation was  not  supposed  to  do  more  than  murmur 
the  verses,  for  fear  of  spoiling  the  effect.  In  his  fa- 
vourite hymns  he  had  a  tendency  to  forget  himself  and 
let  go :  his  vigorous  tenor  rang  lustily.  Then  he  real- 
ized that  the  backs  of  people's  heads  looked  surprised. 
The  children  could  not  be  kept  quiet  unless  they  stood 
up  on  the  pews.  Mr.  Poodle  preached  rather  a  long 
sermon,  and  Yelpers,  toward  twelve-thirty,  remarked  in 
a  clear  tone  of  interested  inquiry,  "What  time  does  God 
have  dinner?" 

Gissing  had  a  painful  feeling  that  he  and  Mr.  Poodle 
did  not  thoroughly  understand  each  other.  The  cu- 
rate, who  was  kindness  itself,  called  one  evening,  and 
they  had  a  friendly  chat.  Gissing  was  pleased  to  find 
that  Mr.  Poodle  enjoyed  a  cigar,  and  after  some  hesita- 
tion ventured  to  suggest  that  he  still  had  something 
in  the  cellar.  Mr.  Poodle  said  that  he  didn't  care  for 
anything,  but  his  host  could  not  help  hearing  the  cu- 
rate's tail  quite  unconsciously  thumping  on  the  chair 
cushions.  So  he  excused  himself  and  brought  up  one 
of  his  few  remaining  bottles  of  White  Horse.  Mr. 

51 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Poodle  crossed  his  legs  and  they  chatted  about  golf, 
politics,  the  income  tax,  and  some  of  the  recent 
books;  but  when  Gissing  turned  the  talk  on  religion, 
Mr.  Poodle  became  diffident.  Gissing,  warmed  and 
cheered  by  the  vital  Scotch,  was  perhaps  too  direct. 


"What  ought  I  to  do  to  'crucify  the  old  man'?99 

"What  ought  I  to  do  to  'crucify  the  old  man'?"  he 
said. 

Mr.  Poodle  was  rather  embarrassed. 

"You  must  mortify  the  desires  of  the  flesh,"  he  re- 
plied. "You  must  dig  up  the  old  bone  of  sin  that  is 
buried  in  all  our  hearts/' 

52 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

There  were  many  more  questions  Gissing  wanted  to 
ask  about  this,  but  Mr.  Poodle  said  he  really  must  be 
going,  as  he  had  a  call  to  pay  on  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chow. 

Gissing  walked  down  the  path  with  him,  and  the 
curate  did  indeed  set  off  toward  the  Chows'.  But  Gis- 
sing wondered,  for  a  little  later  he  heard  a  cheerful 
canticle  upraised  in  the  open  fields. 

He  himself  was  far  from  gay.  He  longed  to  tear 
out  this  malady  from  his  breast.  Poor  dreamer,  he 
did  not  know  that  to  do  so  is  to  tear  out  God  Him- 
self. -.-.  -.  '  v  V-,  :--V^y  '.  •  - 

"Mrs.  Spaniel,"  he  said  when  the  laundress  next 
came  up  from  the  village,  "you  are  a  widow,  aren't 
you?"  :  -:  ••  -:-^;,  '  .  ,  :  -  .  -: 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "Poor  Spaniel  was  killed  by  a 
truck,  two  years  ago  April."  Her  face  was  puzzled, 
but  beneath  her  apron  Gissing  could  see  her  tail  wag- 
ging. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said  quickly.  "I've 
got  to  go  away  on  business.  I  want  you  to  bring  your 
children  and  move  into  this  house  while  I'm  gone.  I'll 

53 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

make  arrangements  at  the  bank  about  paying  all  the 
bills.  You  can  give  up  your  outside  washing  and  de- 
vote yourself  entirely  to  looking  after  this  place/' 

Mrs.  Spaniel  was  so  much  surprised  that  she  could 
not  speak.  In  her  amazement  a  bright  bubble  dripped 
from  the  end  of  her  curly  tongue.  Hastily  she  caught 
it  in  her  apron,  and  apologized. 

"How  long  will  you  be  away,  sir?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know.     It  may  be  quite  a  long  time." 

"But  all  your  beautiful  things,  furniture  and  every- 
thing," said  Mrs.  Spaniel.  "I'm  afraid  my  children 
are  a  bit  rough.  They're  not  used  to  living  in  a  house 
like  this "  ^::  V 

"Well,"  said  Gissing,  "you  must  do  the  best  you  can. 
There  are  some  things  more  important  than  furniture. 
It  will  be  good  for  your  children  to  get  accustomed  to 
refined  surroundings,  and  it'll  be  good  for  my  nephews 
to  have  someone  to  play  with.  Besides,  I  don't  want 
them  to  grow  up  spoiled  mollycoddles.  I  think  I've 
been  fussing  over  them  too  much.  If  they  have  good 
stuff  in  them,  a  little  roughening  won't  do  any  perma- 
nent harm." 

54 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Dear  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Spaniel,  "what  will  the  neigh- 
bours think?" 

"They  won't,"  said  Gissing.  "I  don't  doubt  they'll 
talk,  but  they  won't  think.  Thinking  is  very  rare. 
I've  got  to  do  some  myself,  that's  one  reason  why  I'm 
going.  You  know,  Mrs.  Spaniel,  God  is  a  horizon, 
not  someone  sitting  on  a  throne." 

Mrs.  Spaniel  didn't  understand  this — in  fact,  she 
didn't  seem  to  hear  it.  Her  mind  was  full  of  the  idea 
that  she  would  simply  have  to  have  a  new  dress,  prefer- 
ably black  silk,  for  Sundays.  Gissing,  very  sagacious,, 
had  already  foreseen  this  point. 

"Let's  not  have  any  argument,"  he  continued.  "I 
have  planned  everything.  Here  is  some  money  for 
immediate  needs.  I'll  speak  to  them  at  the  bank,  and 
they  will  give  you  a  weekly  allowance.  I  leave  you 
here  as  caretaker.  Later  on  I'll  send  you  an  address 
and  you  can  write  me  how  things  are  going." 

Poor  Mrs.  Spaniel  was  bewildered.  She  came  of 
very  decent  people,  but  since  Spaniel  took  to  drink,  and 
then  left  her  with  a  family  to  support,  she  had  sunk  in 
the  world.  She  was  wondering  now  how  she  could 

55 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

face  it  out  with  Mrs.  Chow  and  Mrs.  Fox-Terrier  and 
the  other  neighbours. 

"Oh,  dear/'  she  cried,  "I  don't  know  what  to  say,  sir. 
Why,  my  boys  are  so  disreputable-looking,  they  haven't 
even  a  collar  between  them." 

"Get  them  collars  and  anything  else  they  need,"  said 
Gissing  kindly.  "Don't  worry,  Mrs.  Spaniel,  it  will 
be  a  fine  thing  for  you.  There  will  be  a  little  gossip,  I 
dare  say,  but  we'll  have  to  chance  that.  Now  you  had 
better  go  down  to  the  village  and  make  your  arrange 
ments.  I'm  leaving  to-night." 

Late  that  evening,  after  seeing  Mrs.  Spaniel  and  her 
brood  safely  installed,  Gissing  walked  to  the  station 
with  his  suitcase.  He  felt  a  pang  as  he  lifted  the  mos- 
quito nettings  and  kissed  the  cool  moist  noses  of  the 
sleeping  trio.  But  he  comforted  himself  by  thinking 
that  this  was  no  merely  vulgar  desertion.  If  he  was  to 
raise  the  family,  he  must  earn  some  money.  His  mod- 
est income  would  not  suffice  for  this  sudden  increase  in 
expenses.  Besides,  he  had  never  known  what  freedom 
meant  until  it  was  curtailed.  For  the  past  three  months 
he  had  lived  in  ceaseless  attendance ;  had  even  slept  with 

56 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

one  ear  open  for  the  children's  cries.  Now  he  owed  it 
to  himself  to  make  one  great  strike  for  peace.  Wealth, 
he  could  see,  was  the  answer.  With  money,  every- 
thing was  attainable:  books,  leisure  for  study,  travel, 
prestige — in  short,  command  over  the  physical  details 
of  life.  He  would  go  in  for  Big  Business.  Already 
he  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  power  and  prosperity. 

The  little  house  stood  silent  in  the  darkness  as  he 
went  down  the  path.  The  night  was  netted  with  the 
weaving  sparkle  of  fireflies.  He  stood  for  a  moment, 
looking.  Suddenly  there  came  a  frightened  cry  from 
the  nursery. 

"Daddy,  a  keeto,  a  keeto!" 

He  nearly  turned  to  run  back,  but  checked  himself. 
No,  Mrs.  Spaniel  was  now  in  charge.  It  was  up  to 
her.  Besides,  he  had  only  just  enough  time  to  catch  the 
last  train  to  the  city. 

But  he  sat  on  the  cinder-speckled  plush  of  the  smoker 
in  a  mood  that  was  hardly  revelry.  "By  Jove,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "I  got  away  just  in  time.  Another  month 
and  I  couldn't  have  done  it." 

It  was  midnight  when  he  saw  the  lights  of  town, 

57 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

panelled  in  gold  against  a  peacock  sky.  Acres  and 
acres  of  blue  darkness  lay  close-pressing  upon  the 
gaudy  grids  of  light.  Here  one  might  really  look  at 
this  great  miracle  of  shadow  and  see  its  texture.  The 
dulcet  air  drifted  lazily  in  deep,  silent  crosstown  streets. 
"Ah,"  he  said,  "here  is  where  the  blue  begins." 


58 


CHAPTER  SIX 

"For  students  of  the  troubled  heart 
Cities  are  perfect  works  of  art." 

THERE  is  a  city  so  tall  that  even  the  sky  above 
her  seems  to  have  lifted  in  a  cautious  remove, 
inconceivably  far.  There  is  a  city  so  proud, 
so  mad,  so  beautiful  and  young,  that  even  heaven  has 
retreated,  lest  her  placid  purity  be  too  nearly  tempted 
by  that  brave  tragic  spell.  In  the  city  which  is  mad- 
dest of  all,  Gissing  had  come  to  search  for  sanity.  In 
the  city  so  strangely  beautiful  that  she  has  made  even 
poets  silent,  he  had  come  to  find  a  voice.  In  the  city 
of  glorious  ostent  and  vanity,  he  had  come  to  look  for 
humility  and  peace. 

All  cities  are  mad :  but  the  madness  is  gallant.  All 
cities  are  beautiful :  but  the  beauty  is  grim.  Who  shall 
tell  me  the  truth  about  this  one?  Tragic?  Even  so, 
because  wherever  ambitions,  vanities,  and  follies  are 
multiplied  by  millionfold  contact,  calamity  is  there. 

59 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Noble  and  beautiful?  Aye,  for  even  folly  may  have 
the  majesty  of  magnitude.  Hasty,  cruel,  shallow? 
Agreed,  but  where  in  this  terrene  orb  will  you  find  it 
otherwise?  I  know  all  that  can  be  said  against  her; 
and  yet  in  her  great  library  of  streets,  vast  and  various 
as  Shakespeare,  is  beauty  enough  for  a  lifetime.  O 
poets,  why  have  you  been  so  faint?  Because  she  seems 
cynical  and  crass,  she  cries  with  trumpet-call  to  the 
mind  of  the  dreamer;  because  she  is  riant  and  mad,  she 
speaks  to  the  grave  sanity  of  the  poet. 

So,  in  a  mood  perhaps  too  consciously  lofty,  Gissing 
was  meditating.  It  was  rather  impudent  of  him  to  ac- 
cuse the  city  of  being  mad,  for  he  himself,  in  his  glee 
over  freedom  regained,  was  not  conspicuously  sane. 
He  scoured  the  town  in  high  spirits,  peering  into  shop- 
windows,  riding  on  top  of  busses,  going  to  the  Zoo, 
taking  the  rickety  old  steamer  to  the  Statue  of  Liberty, 
drinking  afternoon  tea  at  the  Ritz,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  The  first  three  nights  in  town  he  slept  in  one 
of  the  little  traffic-towers  that  perch  on  stilts  up  above 
Fifth  Avenue.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  that  one 
near  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral.  He  had  ridden  up  the 

60 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Avenue  in  a  taxi,  intending  to  go  to  the  Plaza  (just 
for  a  bit  of  splurge  after  his  domestic  confinement). 
As  the  cab  went  by,  he  saw  the  traffic-tower,  dark  and 
empty,  and  thought  what  a  pleasant  place  to  sleep.  So 
he  asked  the  driver  to  let  him  out  at  the  Cathedral,  and 
after  being  sure  that  he  was  not  observed,  walked  back 
to  the  little  turret,  climbed  up  the  ladder,  and  made 
himself  at  home.  He  liked  it  so  well  that  he  returned 
there  the  two  following  nights;  but  he  didn't  sleep 
much,  for  he  could  not  resist  the  fun  of  startling  night- 
hawk  taxis  by  suddenly  flashing  the  red,  green,  and 
yellow  lights  at  them,  and  seeing  them  stop  in  bewilder- 
ment. But  after  three  nights  he  thought  it  best  to  leave. 
It  would  have  been  awkward  if  the  police  had  discov- 
ered him. 

It  was  time  to  settle  down  and  begin  work.  He  had 
an  uncle  who  was  head  of  an  important  business  far 
down-town;  but  Gissing,  with  the  quixotry  of  youth, 
was  determined  to  make  his  own  start  in  the  great  world 
of  commerce.  He  found  a  room  on  the  top  floor  of  a 
quiet  brownstone  house  in  the  West  Seventies.  It  was 
not  large,  and  he  had  to  go  down  a  flight  for  his  bath; 

61 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  gas  burner  over  the  bed  whistled ;  the  dust  was  rather 
startling  after  the  clean  country;  but  it  was  cheap,  and 
his  sense  of  adventure  more  than  compensated.  Mrs. 
Purp,  the  landlady,  pleased  him  greatly.  She  was  very 
maternal,  and  urged  him  not  to  bolt  his  meals  in  arm- 
chair lunches.  She  put  an  ashtray  in  his  room. 

Gissing  sent  Mrs.  Spaniel  a  postcard  with  a  picture 
of  the  Pennsylvania  Station.  On  it  he  wrote  Arrived 
safely.  Hard  at  work.  Love  to  the  children.  Then 
he  went  to  look  for  a  job. 

His  ideas  about  business  were  very  vague.  All  he 
knew  was  that  he  wished  to  be  very  wealthy  and  influ- 
ential as  soon  as  possible.  He  could  have  had  much 
sound  advice  from  his  uncle,  who  was  a  member  of 
the  Union  Kennel  and  quite  a  prominent  dog-about- 
town.  But  Gissing  had  the  secretive  pride  of  inexperi- 
ence. Moreover,  he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  say 
about  his  establishment  in  the  country.  That  houseful 
of  children  would  need  some  explaining. 

Those  were  days  of  brilliant  heat;  clear,  golden,  dry. 
The  society  columns  in  the  papers  assured  him  that 
everyone  was  out  of  town ;  but  the  Avenue  seemed  plen- 

62 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tifully  crowded  with  beautiful,  superb  creatures.  Far 
down  the  gentle  slopes  of  that  glimmering  roadway  he 
could  see  the  rolling  stream  of  limousines,  dazzles  of 
sunlight  caught  on  their  polished  flanks.  A  faint  blue 
haze  of  gasoline  fumes  hung  low  in  the  bright  warm 
air.  This  is  the  street  where  even  the  most  passive  are 
pricked  by  the  strange  lur^of  carnal  dominion.  Noth- 
ing less  than  a  job  on  the  Avenue  itself  would  suit  his 
mood,  he  felt. 

Fortune  and  audacity  united  (as  they  always  do)  to 
concede  his  desire.  He  was  in  the  beautiful  depart- 
ment store  of  Beagle  and  Company,  one  of  the  most 
splendid  of  its  kind,  looking  at  some  sand-coloured 
spats.  In  an  aisle  near  by  he  heard  a  commotion — 
nothing  vulgar,  but  still  an  evident  stir,  with  repressed 
yelps  and  a  genteel,  horrified  bustle.  He  hastened  to 
the  spot,  and  through  the  crowd  saw  someone  lying  on 
the  floor.  An  extremely  beautiful  salesdamsel,  charm- 
ingly clad  in  black  crepe  de  chien,  was  supporting  the 
victim's  head,  vainly  fanning  him.  Wealthy  dowagers 
were  whining  in  distress.  Then  an  ambulance  clanged 
up  to  a  side  door,  and  a  stretcher  was  brought  in. 

63 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"What  is  it?"  said  Gissing  to  a  female  at  the  silk- 
stocking  counter. 

"One  of  the  floorwalkers — died  of  heat  prostration," 
she  said,  looking  very  much  upset. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Gissing.  "You  never  know 
what  will  happen  next,  do  you?"  He  walked  away, 
shaking  his  head. 

He  asked  the  elevator  attendant  to  direct  him  to  the 
offices  of  the  firm.  On  the  seventh  floor,  down  a  quiet 
corridor  behind  the  bedroom  suites,  a  rosewood  fence 
barred  his  way.  A  secretary  faced  him  inquiringly. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Beagle." 

"Mr.  Beagle  senior  or  Mr.  Beagle  junior?" 

Youth  cleaves  to  youth,  said  Gissing  to  himself. 
"Mr.  Beagle  junior,"  he  stated  firmly. 

"Have  you  an  appointment?" 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

She  took  his  card,  disappeared,  and  returned.  "This 
way,  please,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Beagle  senior  must  be  very  old  indeed,  he 
thought;  for  junior  was  distinctly  grizzled.  In  fact 
(so  rapidly  does  the  mind  run),  Mr.  Beagle  senior  must 

64 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

be  near  the  age  of  retirement.  Very  likely  (he  said  to 
himself)  that  will  soon  occur;  there  will  be  a  general 
stepping-up  among  members  of  the  firm,  and  that  will 
be  my  chance.  I  wonder  how  much  they  pay  a  junior 
partner? 

He  almost  uttered  this  question,  as  Mr.  Beagle  junior 
looked  at  him  so  inquiringly.  But  he  caught  himself 
in  time. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  intruding/'  said  Gissing,  "but 
I  am  the  new  floorwalker." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mr.  Beagle  junior,  "but 
we  do  not  need  a  new  floorwalker." 

"I  beg  your  pardon  again,"  said  Gissing,  "but  you 
are  not  au  courant  with  the  affairs  of  the  store.  One 
has  just  died,  right  by  the  silk-stocking  counter.  Very 
bad  for  business." 

At  this  moment  the  telephone  rang,  and  Mr.  Beagle 
seized  it.  He  listened,  sharply  examining  his  caller 
meanwhile. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  as  he  put  down  the  receiver. 
"Well,  sir,  have  you  had  any  experience?" 

"Not  exactly  of  that  sort,"  said  Gissing;  "but  I  think 

65 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

I  understand  the  requirements.  The  tone  of  the 
store " 

"I  will  ask  you  to  be  here  at  four-thirty  this  after- 
noon," said  Mr.  Beagle.  "We  have  a  particular  routine 
in  regard  to  candidates  for  that  position.  You  will 
readily  perceive  that  it  is  a  post  of  some  importance. 
The  floorwalker  is  our  point  of  social  contact  with  pa- 
trons  " 

Gissing  negligently  dusted  his  shoes  with  a  handker- 
chief. 

"Pray  do  not  apologize,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  am 
willing  to  congratulate  with  you  on  your  good  fortune. 
It  was  mere  hazard  that  I  was  in  the  store.  To-day,  of 
course,  business  will  be  poor.  But  to-morrow,  I  think 
you  will  find " 

"At  four-thirty,"  said  Mr.  Beagle,  a  little  puzzled. 

That  day  Gissing  went  without  lunch.  First  he  ex- 
plored the  whole  building  from  top  to  bottom,  until  he 
knew  the  location  of  every  department,  and  had  the 
store  directory  firmly  memorized.  With  almost  pro- 
prietory  tenderness  he  studied  the  shining  goods  and 
trinkets;  noted  approvingly  the  clerks  who  seemed  to 

66 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

him  specially  prompt  and  obliging  to  customers; 
scowled  a  little  at  any  sign  of  boredom  or  inattention. 
He  heard  the  soft  sigh  of  the  pneumatic  tubes  as  they 
received  money  and  blew  it  to  some  distant  coffer :  this 
money,  he  thought,  was  already  partly  his.  That 
square-cut  creature  whom  he  pres- 
ently discerned  following  him  was 
undoubtedly  the  store  detective:  he 
smiled  to  think  what  a  pleasant  anec- 
dote this  would  be  when  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  junior  partnership.  Then  he 
went,  finally,  to  the  special  Masculine 
Shop  on  the  fifth  floor,  where  he 
bought  a  silk  hat,  a  cutaway  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  trousers  of  pearly  stripe. 
He  did  not  forget  patent  leather  shoes, 
nor  white  spats.  He  refused  the  little 
linen  margins  which  the  clerk  wished  cut 
to  affix  to  the  V  of  his  waistcoat.  That,  undoubtedly  the 
he  felt, was  the  ultra  touch  which  would  store  detective  . 
spoil  all.  The  just  less  than  perfection,  how  perfect 
it  is! 


67 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

It  was  getting  late.  He  hurried  to  Penn  Station 
where  he  hired  one  of  those  little  dressing  booths,  and 
put  on  his  regalia.  His  tweeds,  in  a  neat  package, 
he  checked  at  the  parcel  counter.  Then  he  returned 
to  the  store  for  the  important  interview. 

He  had  expected  a  formal  talk  with  the  two  Messrs. 
Beagle,  perhaps  touching  on  such  matters  as  duties, 
hours,  salary,  and  so  on.  To  his  surprise  he  was 
ushered  by  the  secretary  into  a  charming  Louis  XVI 
salon  farther  down  the  private  corridor.  There  were 
several  ladies:  one  was  pouring  tea.  Mr.  Beagle 
junior  came  forward.  The  vice-president  (such  was 
Mr.  Beagle  junior's  rank,  Gissing  had  learned  by  the 
sign  on  his  door)  still  wore  his  business  garb  of  the 
morning.  Gissing  immediately  felt  himself  to  have 
the  advantage.  But  what  a  pleasant  idea,  he  thought, 
for  the  members  of  the  firm  to  have  tea  together  every 
afternoon.  He  handed  his  hat,  gloves,  and  stick  to  the 
secretary. 

"Very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Mr.  Beagle.  "Let 
me  present  you  to  my  wife." 

Mrs.  Beagle,  at  the  tea-urn,  received  him  graciously. 

68 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Cream  or  lemon?"  she  said.    "Two  lumps?" 

This  is  really  delightful,  Gissing  thought.  Only  on 
Fifth  Avenue  could  this  kind  of  thing  happen.  He 
looked  down  upon  the  hostess  from  his  superior  height, 
and  smiled  charmingly. 

"Do  you  permit  three?"  he  said.  "A  little  weak- 
ness of  mine."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  hated  tea  so 
sweet;  but  he  felt  it  was  strategic  to  fix  himself  in  Mrs. 
Beagle's  mind  as  a  polished  eccentric. 

"You  must  have  a  meringue,"  she  said.  "Ah,  Mrs. 
Pomeranian  has  them.  Mrs.  Pomeranian,  let  me  pre- 
sent Mr.  Gissing." 

Mrs.  Pomeranian,  small  and  plump  and  tightly  cor- 
seted, offered  the  meringues,  while  Mrs.  Beagle  pressed 
upon  him  a  plate  with  a  small  doily,  embroidered  with 
the  arms  of  the  store,  and  its  motto  ]e  maintiendrai — 
referring,  no  doubt,  to  its  prices.  Mr.  Beagle  then  in- 
troduced him  to  several  more  ladies  in  rapid  succession. 
Gissing  passed  along  the  line,  bowing  slightly  but  with 
courteous  interest  to  each.  To  each  one  he  raised  his 
eyebrows  and  permitted  himself  a  small  significant 
smile,  as  though  to  convey  that  this  was  a  moment 

69 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

he  had  long  been  anticipating.  How  different,  he 
thought,  was  this  life  of  enigmatic  gaiety  from  the 
suburban  drudgery  of  recent  months.  If  only  Mrs. 
Spaniel  could  see  him  now!  He  was  about  to 
utilize  a  brief  pause  by  sipping  his  tea,  when  a 
white-headed  patriarch  suddenly  appeared  beside 
him. 

"Mr.  Gissing,"  said  the  vice-president,  "this  is  my 
father,  Mr.  Beagle  senior." 

Gissing,  by  quick  work,  shuffled  the  teacup  into  his 
left  paw,  and  the  meringue  plate  into  the  crook  of  his 
elbow,  so  he  was  ready  for  the  old  gentleman's  saluta- 
tion. Mr.  Beagle  senior  was  indeed  very  old :  his  white 
hair  hung  over  his  eyes,  he  spoke  with  growling  sever- 
ity. Gissing's  manner  to  the  old  merchant  was  one  of 
respectful  reassurance:  he  attempted  to  make  an  im- 
pression that  would  console:  to  impart — of  course 
without  saying  so — the  thought  that  though  the  head 
of  the  firm  could  not  last  much  longer,  yet  he  would 
leave  his  great  traffic  in  capable  care. 

"Where  will  I  find  an  aluminum  cooking  pot?" 
growled  the  elder  Beagle  unexpectedly. 

70 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"In  the  Bargain  Basement,"  said  Gissing  promptly. 

"He'll  do !"  cried  the  president. 

To  his  surprise,  on  looking  round,  Gissing  saw  that 
all  the  ladies  had  vanished.  Beagle  junior  was  grin- 
ning at  him. 

"You  have  the  job,  Mr.  Gissing/'  he  said.  "You 
will  pardon  the  harmless  masquerade — we  always  try 
out  a  floorwalker  in  that  way.  My  father  thinks  that 
if  he  can  handle  a  teacup  and  a  meringue  while  being 
introduced  to  ladies,  he  can  manage  anything  on  the 
main  aisle  downstairs.  Mrs.  Pomeranian,  our  milli- 
nery buyer,  said  she  had  never  seen  it  better  done,  and 
she  mixes  with  some  of  the  swellest  people  in  Paris." 

"Nine  to  six,  with  half  an  hour  off  for  lunch,"  said 
the  senior  partner,  and  left  the  room. 

Gissing  calmly  swallowed  his  tea,  and  ate  the  me- 
ringue. He  would  have  enjoyed  another,  but  the  ca- 
pable secretary  had  already  removed  them.  He  poured 
himself  a  second  cup  of  tea.  Mr.  Beagle  junior  showed 
signs  of  eagerness  to  leave  but  Gissing  detained  him. 

"One  moment,"  he  said  suavely.  "There  is  a  little 
matter  we  have  not  discussed.  The  question  of  salary." 

71 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Mr.  Beagle  looked  thoughtfully  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"Thirty  dollars  a  week,"  he  said. 

After  all,  Gissing  thought,  it  will  only  take  four 
weeks  to  pay  for  what  I  have  spent  on  clothes. 


72 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THERE  was  some  dramatic  nerve  in  Gissing's 
nature  that  responded  eloquently  to  the  floor- 
walking  job.  Never,  in  the  history  of  Beagle 
and  Company,  had  there  been  a  floorwalker  who  threw 
so  much  passion  and  zeal  into  his  task.  The  very  hang 
of  his  coat-tails,  even  the  erect  carriage  of  his  back,  the 
rubbery  way  in  which  his  feet  trod  the  aisles,  showed 
his  sense  of  dignity  and  glamour.  There  seemed  to 
be  a  great  tradition  which  enriched  and  upheld  him. 
Mr.  Beagle  senior  used  to  stand  on  the  little  balcony  at 
the  rear  of  the  main  floor,  transfixed  with  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  Gissing  move  among  the  crowded  passages. 
Alert,  watchful,  urbane,  with  just  the  ideal  blend  of 
courtesy  and  condescension,  he  raised  floorwalking  to 
a  social  art.  Female  customers  asked  him  the  way  to 
departments  they  knew  perfectly  well,  for  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  him  direct  them.  Business  began  to  im- 
prove before  he  had  been  there  a  week. 

73 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

And  how  he  enjoyed  himself!  The  perfection  of 
his  bearing  on  the  floor  was  no  careful  pose:  it  was 
due  to  the  brimming  overplus  of  his  happiness.  Hap- 
piness is  surely  the  best  teacher  of  good  manners :  only 
the  unhappy  are  churlish  in  deportment.  He  was 
young,  remember;  and  this  was  his  first  job.  His  pre- 
cocious experience  as  a  paterfamilias  had  added  to  his 
mien  just  that  suggestion  of  unconscious  gravity  which 
is  so  appealing  to  ladies.  He  looked  (they  thought) 
as  though  he  had  been  touched — but  Oh  so  lightly ! — 
by  poetic  sorrow  or  strange  experience :  to  ask  him  the 
way  to  the  notion  counter  was  as  much  of  an  adventure 
as  to  meet  a  reigning  actor  at  a  tea.  The  faint  cloud 
of  melancholy  that  shadowed  his  brow  may  have  been 
only  due  to  the  fact  that  his  new  boots  were  pinching 
painfully;  but  they  did  not  know  that. 

So,  quite  unconsciously,  he  began  to  "establish"  him- 
self in  his  role,  just  as  an  actor  does.  At  first  he  felt 
his  way  tentatively  and  with  tact.  Every  store  has  its 
own  tone  and  atmosphere :  in  a  day  or  so  he  divined  the 
characteristic  cachet  of  the  Beagle  establishment.  He 
saw  what  kind  of  customers  were  typical,  and  what  sort 

74 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

of  conduct  they  expected.  And  the  secret  of  conquest 
being  always  to  give  people  a  little  more  than  they  ex- 
pect, he  pursued  that  course.  Since  they  expected  in 
a  floorwalker  the  mechanical  and  servile  gentility  of  a 
hired  puppet,  he  exhibited  the  easy,  offhand  simplicity 
of  a  fellow  club-member.  With  perfect  naturalness 
he  went  out  of  his  way  to  assist  in  their  shopping  con- 
cerns: gave  advice  in  the  selection  of  dress  materials, 
acted  as  arbiter  in  the  matching  of  frocks  and  stock- 
ings. His  taste  being  faultless,  it  often  happened  that 
the  things  he  recommended  were  not  the  most  expen- 
sive: this  again  endeared  him  to  customers.  When 
sales  slips  were  brought  to  him  by  ladies  who  wished 
to  make  an  exchange,  he  affixed  his  O.  K.  with  a  mag- 
nificent flourish,  and  with  such  evident  pleasure,  that 
patrons  felt  genuine  elation,  and  plunged  into  the  tu- 
mult with  new  enthusiasm.  It  was  not  long  before 
there  were  always  people  waiting  for  his  counsel ;  and 
husbands  would  appear  at  the  store  to  convey  (a  little 
irritably)  some  such  message  as:  "Mrs.  Sealyham  says, 
please  choose  her  a  scarf  that  will  go  nicely  with  that 
brown  moire  dress  of  hers.  She  says  you  will  remem- 

75 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

her  the  dress." — This  popularity  became  even  a  bit 
perplexing,  as  for  instance  when  old  Mrs.  Dachshund, 
the  store's  biggest  Charge  Account,  insisted  on  his 
leaving  his  beat  at  a  very  busy  time,  to  go  to  the  tenth 
floor  to  tell  her  which  piano  he  thought  had  the  richer 
tone. 


V 

To  tell  her  which  piano  he  thought  had  the 
richer  tone 

Of  course  all  this  was  very  entertaining,  and  an  ad- 
mirable opportunity  for  studying  his  fellow-creatures; 
but  it  did  not  go  very  deep  into  his  mind.  He  lived  for 
some  time  in  a  confused  glamour  and  glitter;  sur- 
rounded by  the  fascinating  specious  life  of  the  store, 
but  drifting  merely  superficially  upon  it.  The  great 
place,  with  its  columns  of  artificial  marble  and  white 
censers  of  upward-shining  electricity,  glimmered  like 

76 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

a  birch  forest  by  moonlight.  Silver  and  jewels  and 
silks  and  slippers  flashed  all  about  him.  It  was  a  mar- 
vellous education,  for  he  soon  learned  to  estimate  these 
things  at  their  proper  value;  which  is  low,  for  they  have 
little  to  do  with  life  itself.  His  work  was  tiring  in  the 
extreme — merely  having  to  remain  upright  on  his  hind 
legs  for  such  long  hours  was  an  ordeal — but  it  did  not 
penetrate  to  the  secret  observant  self  of  which  he  was 
always  aware.  This  was  advantageous.  If  you  have  no 
intellect,  or  only  just  enough  to  get  along  with,  it  does 
not  much  matter  what  you  do.  But  if  you  really  have 
a  mind — by  which  is  meant  that  rare  and  curious  power 
of  reason,  of  imagination,  and  of  emotion;  very  differ- 
ent from  a  mere  fertility  of  conversation  and  intelligent 
curiosity — it  is  better  not  to  weary  and  wear  it  out  over 
trifles. 

So,  when  he  left  the  store  in  the  evening,  no  matter 
how  his  legs  ached,  his  head  was  clear  and  untarnished. 
He  did  not  hurry  away  at  closing  time.  Places  where 
people  work  are  particularly  fascinating  after  the  bustle 
is  over.  He  loved  to  linger  in  the  long  aisles,  to  see  the 
tumbled  counters  being  swiftly  brought  to  order,  to 

77 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

hear  the  pungent  cynicisms  of  the  weary  shopgirls. 
To  these,  by  the  way,  he  was  a  bit  of  a  mystery.  The 
punctilio  of  his  manner,  the  extreme  courtliness  of  his 
remarks,  embarrassed  them  a  little.  Behind  his  back 
they  spoke  of  him  as  "The  Duke"  and  admired  him 
hugely;  little  Miss  Whippet,  at  the  stocking  counter, 
said  that  he  was  an  English  noble  of  long  pedigree,  who 
had  been  unjustly  deprived  of  his  estates. 

Down  in  the  basement  of  this  palatial  store  was  a 
little  dressing  room  and  lavatory  for  the  floorwalkers, 
where  they  doffed  their  formal  raiment  and  resumed 
street  attire.  His  colleagues  grumbled  and  hastened 
to  depart,  but  Gissing  made  himself  entirely  comfort- 
able. In  his  locker  he  kept  a  baby's  bathtub,  which  he 
leisurely  filled  with  hot  water  at  one  of  the  basins.  Then 
he  sat  serenely  and  bathed  his  feet;  although  it  was 
against  the  rules  he  often  managed  to  smoke  a  pipe 
while  doing  so.  Then  he  hung  up  his  store  clothes 
neatly,  and  went  off  refreshed  into  the  summer  evening. 

A  warm  rosy  light  floods  the  city  at  that  hour.  At 
the  foot  of  every  crosstown  street  is  a  bonfire  of  sunset. 
What  a  mood  of  secret  smiling  beset  him  as  he  viewed 

78 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  great  territory  of  his  enjoyment.  "The  freedom  of 
the  city" — a  phrase  he  had  somewhere  heard — echoed 
in  his  mind.  The  freedom  of  the  city !  A  magnificent 
saying.  Electric  signs,  first  burning  wanly  in  the  pink 
air,  then  brightened  and  grew  strong.  "Not  light,  but 
rather  darkness  visible,"  in  that  magic  hour  that  just 
holds  the  balance  between  paling  day  and  the  spend- 
thrift jewellery  of  evening.  Or,  if  it  rained,  to  sit 
blithely  on  the  roof  of  a  bus,  revelling  in  the  gust  and 
whipping  of  the  shower.  Why  had  no  one  told  him  of 
the  glory  of  the  city?  She  was  pride,  she  was  exulta- 
tion, she  was  madness.  She  was  what  he  had  obscurely 
craved.  In  every  line  of  her  gallant  profile  he  saw  con- 
quest, triumph,  victory!  Empty  conquest,  futile  tri- 
umph, doomed  victory — but  that  was  the  essence  of  the 
drama.  In  thunderclaps  of  dumb  ecstasy  he  saw  her 
whole  gigantic  fabric,  leaning  and  clamouring  upward 
with  terrible  yearning.  Burnt  with  pitiless  sunlight, 
drenched  with  purple  explosions  of  summer  storm,  he 
saw  her  cleansed  and  pure.  Where  were  her  recreant 
poets  that  they  had  never  made  these  things  plain? 
And  then,  after  the  senseless  day,  after  its  happy  but 

79 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

meaningless  triviality,  the  throng  and  mixed  perfumery 
and  silly  courteous  gestures,  his  blessed  solitude !  Oh 
solitude,  that  noble  peace  of  the  mind !  He  loved  the 
throng  and  multitude  of  the  day :  he  loved  people :  but 
sometimes  he  suspected  that  he  loved  them  as  God  does 
— at  a  judicious  distance.  From  his  rather  haphazard 
religious  training,  strange  words  came  back  to  him. 
"For  God  so  loved  the  world  .  .  ."  So  loved  the 
world  that — that  what?  That  He  sent  someone  else 
.  .  .  Some  day  he  must  think  this  out.  But  you 
can't  think  things  out.  They  think  themselves,  sud- 
denly, amazingly.  The  city  itself  is  God,  he  cried. 
Was  not  God's  ultimate  promise  something  about  a 
city — The  City  of  God?  Well,  but  that  was  only  sym- 
bolic language.  The  city — of  course  that  was  only  a 
symbol  for  the  race — for  all  his  kind.  The  entire 
species,  the  whole  aspiration  and  passion  and  struggle, 
that  was  God. 

On  the  ferries,  at  night,  after  supper,  was  his  favour- 
ite place  for  meditation.  Some  undeniable  instinct 
drew  him  ever  and  again  out  of  the  deep  and  shut  ra- 
vines of  stone,  to  places  where  he  could  feed  on  distance. 

80 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

That  is  one  of  the  subtleties  of  this  straight  and  narrow 
city,  that  though  her  ways  are  cliffed  in,  they  are  a  long 
thoroughfare  for  the  eye :  there  is  always  a  far  perspec- 
tive. But  best  of  all  to  go  down  to  her  environing 
water,  where  spaces  are  wide :  the  openness  that  keeps 
her  sound  and  free.  Ships  had  words  for  him:  they 
had  crossed  many  horizons :  fragments  of  that  broken 
blue  still  shone  on  their  cutting  bows.  Ferries,  the 
most  poetical  things  in  the  city,  were  nearly  empty  at 
night :  he  stood  by  the  rail,  saw  the  black  outline  of  the 
town  slide  by,  saw  the  lower  sky  gilded  with  her  merri- 
ment, and  was  busy  thinking. 

Now  about  a  God  (he  said  to  himself) — instinct  tells 
me  that  there  is  one,  for  when  I  think  about  Him  I  find 
that  I  unconsciously  wag  my  tail  a  little.  But  I  must 
not  reason  on  that  basis,  which  is  too  puppyish.  I  like 
to  think  that  there  is,  somewhere  in  this  universe,  an  in- 
scrutable Being  of  infinite  wisdom,  harmony,  and  char- 
ity, by  Whom  all  my  desires  and  needs  would  be  under- 
stood; in  association  with  Whom  I  would  find  peace, 
satisfaction,  a  lightness  of  heart  that  exceed  my  present 
understanding.  Such  a  Being  is  to  me  quite  inconceiv- 

81 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

able;  yet  I  feel  that  if  I  met  Him,  I  would  instantly 
understand.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  would  understand 
Him:  but  I  would  understand  my  relationship  to  Him, 
which  would  be  perfect.  Nor  do  I  mean  that  it  would 
be  always  happy;  merely  that  it  would  transcend  any- 
thing in  the  way  of  social  significance  that  I  now  expe- 
rience. But  I  must  not  conclude  that  there  is  such  a 
God,  merely  because  it  would  be  so  pleasant  if  there 
were. 

Then  (he  continued)  is  it  necessary  to  conceive  that 
this  deity  is  super-canine  in  essence?  What  I  am  get- 
ting at  is  this :  in  everyone  I  have  ever  known — Fuji, 
Mr.  Poodle,  Mrs.  Spaniel,  those  maddening  delightful 
puppies,  Mrs.  Purp,  Mr.  Beagle,  even  Mrs.  Chow  and 
Mrs.  Sealyham  and  little  Miss  Whippet — I  have  al- 
ways been  aware  that  there  was  some  mysterious  point 
of  union  at  which  our  minds  could  converge  and  en- 
tirely understand  one  another.  No  matter  what  our 
difference  of  breed,  of  training,  of  experience  and  ed- 
ucation, provided  we  could  meet  and  exchange  ideas 
honestly  there  would  be  some  satisfying  point  of  mental 
fusion  where  we  would  feel  our  solidarity  in  the  com- 

82 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

mon  mystery  of  life.  People  complain  that  wars  are 
caused  by  and  fought  over  trivial  things.  Why,  of 
course!  For  it  is  only  in  trivial  matters  that  people 
differ :  in  the  deep  realities  they  must  necessarily  be  at 
one.  Now  I  have  a  suspicion  that  in  this  secret  sense 
of  unity  God  may  lurk.  Is  that  what  we  mean  by  God, 
the  sum  total  of  all  these  instinctive  understandings? 
But  what  is  the  origin  of  this  sense  of  kinship?  Is  it 
not  the  realization  of  our  common  subjection  to  laws 
and  forces  greater  than  ourselves?  Then,  since  noth- 
ing can  be  greater  than  God,  He  must  be  these  superior 
mysteries.  Yet  He  cannot  be  greater  than  our  minds, 
for  our  minds  have  imagined  Him. 

My  mathematics  is  very  rusty,  he  said  to  himself, 
but  I  seem  to  remember  something  about  a  locus,  which 
was  a  curve  or  a  surface  every  point  on  which  satisfied 
some  particular  equation  of  relation  among  the  co- 
ordinates. It  begins  to  look  to  me  as  though  life  might 
be  a  kind  of  locus,  whose  commanding  equation  we  call 
God.  The  points  on  that  locus  cannot  conceive  of  the 
equation,  yet  they  are  subject  to  it.  They  cannot  con- 
ceive of  that  equation,  because  of  course  it  has  no  ex- 

83 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

istence  save  as  a  law  of  their  being.  It  exists  only  for 
them ;  they,  only  by  it.  But  there  it  is — a  perfect,  po- 
tent, divine  abstraction. 

This  carried  him  into  a  realm  of  disembodied  think- 
ing which  his  mind  was  not  sufficiently  disciplined  to 
summarize.  It  is  quite  plain,  he  said  to  himself,  that  I 
must  rub  up  my  vanished  mathematics.  For  certainly 
the  mathematician  comes  closer  to  God  than  any  other, 
since  his  mind  is  trained  to  conceive  and  formulate  the 
magnificent  phantoms  of  legality.  He  smiled  to  think 
that  any  one  should  presume  to  become  a  parson  with- 
out having  at  least  mastered  analytical  geometry. 

The  ferry  had  crossed  and  recrossed  the  river  several 
times,  but  Gissing  had  found  no  conclusion  for  these 
thoughts.  As  the  boat  drew  toward  her  slip,  she  passed 
astern  of  a  great  liner.  Gissing  saw  the  four  tall  fun- 
nels loom  up  above  the  shed  of  the  pier  where  she  lay 
berthed.  What  was  it  that  made  his  heart  so  stir?  The 
perfect  rake  of  the  funnels — just  that  satisfying  angle 
of  slant — that,  absurdly  enough,  was  the  nobility  of  the 
sight.  Why,  then?  Let's  get  at  the  heart  of  this,  he 
said.  Just  that  little  trick  of  the  architect,  useless  in 

84 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

itself — what  was  it  but  the  touch  of  swagger,  of  bra- 
vado, of  defiance — going  out  into  the  vast,  meaningless, 
unpitying  sea  with  that  dainty  arrogance  of  build;  tak- 
ing the  trouble  to  mock  the  senseless  elements,  hurri- 
cane, ice,  and  fog,  with  a  15-degree  slope  of  masts  and 
funnels  .  >  .  damn,  what  was  the  analogy? 

It  was  pride,  it  was  pride!  It  was  the  same  lusty 
impudence  that  he  saw  in  his  perfect  city,  the  city  that 
cried  out  to  the  hearts  of  youth,  jutted  her  mocking  pin- 
nacles toward  sky,  her  clumsy  turrets  verticalled  on 
gold !  And  God,  the  God  of  gales  and  gravity,  loved 
His  children  to  dare  and  contradict  him,  to  rally  Him 
with  equations  of  their  own. 

"God,  1  defy  you !"  he  cried. 


85 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

TIME  is  a  flowing  river.     Happy  those  who  al- 
low themselves  to  be  carried,  unresisting,  with 
the  current.    They  float  through  easy  days. 
They  live,  unquestioning,  in  the  moment. 

But  Gissing  was  acutely  conscious  of  Time.  Though 
not  subtle  enough  to  analyze  the  matter  acutely,  he 
had  a  troublesome  feeling  about  it.  He  kept  checking 
off  a  series  of  Nows.  "Now  I  am  having  my  bath," 
he  would  say  to  himself  in  the  morning.  "Now  I  am 
dressing.  Now  I  am  on  the  way  to  the  store.  Now  I 
am  in  the  jewellery  aisle,  being  polite  to  customers. 
Now  I  am  having  lunch."  After  a  period  in  which 
Time  ran  by  unnoticed,  he  would  suddenly  realize  a 
fresh  Now,  and  feel  uneasy  at  the  knowledge  that  it 
would  shortly  dissolve  into  another  one.  He  tried, 
vainly,  to  swim  up-stream  against  the  smooth  impalp- 
able fatal  current.  He  tried  to  dam  up  Time,  to  deepen 

86 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  stream  so  that  he  could  bathe  in  it  carelessly.  Time, 
he  said,  is  life;  and  life  is  God;  Time,  then,  is  little  bits 
of  God.  Those  who  waste  their  time  in  vulgarity  or 
folly  are  the  true  atheists. 

One  of  the  things  that  struck  him  about  the  city  was 
its  heedlessness  of  Time.  On  every  side  he  saw  people 
spending  it  without  adequate  return.  Perhaps  he  was 
young  and  doctrinaire :  but  he  devised  this  theory  for 
himself — all  time  is  wasted  that  does  not  give  you  some 
awareness  of  beauty  or  wonder.  In  other  words,  "the 
days  that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise/'  he  said  to  him- 
self, quoting  Masefield's  line.  On  that  principle,  he 
asked,  how  much  time  is  wasted  in  this  city?  Well, 
here  are  some  six  million  people.  To  simplify  the 
problem  (which  is  permitted  to  every  philosopher)  let 
us  (he  said)  assume  that  2,350,000  of  those  people  have 
spent  a  day  that  could  be  called,  on  the  whole,  happy : 
a  day  in  which  they  have  had  glimpses  of  reality;  a  day 
in  which  they  feel  satisfaction.  (That  was,  he  felt,  a 
generous  allowance.)  Very  well,  then,  that  leaves 
3,650,000  people  whose  day  has  been  unfruitful :  spent 
in  uncongenial  work,  or  in  sorrow,  suffering,  and  talk- 

87 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ing  nonsense.  This  city,  then,  in  one  day,  has  wasted 
10,000  years,  or  100  centuries.  One  hundred  centuries 
squandered  in  a  day !  It  made  him  feel  quite  ill,  and 
he  tore  up  the  scrap  of  paper  on  which  he  had  been 
figuring. 

This  was  a  new,  disconcerting  way  to  think  of  the 
subject.  We  are  accustomed  to  consider  Time  only  as 
it  applies  to  ourselves,  forgetting  that  it  is  working 
upon  everyone  else  simultaneously.  Why,  he  thought 
with  a  sudden  shock,  if  only  36,500  people  in  this  city 
have  had  a  thoroughly  spendthrift  and  useless  day,  that 
means  a  net  loss  of  a  century!  If  the  War,  he  said  to 
himself,  lasted  over  1,500  days  and  involved  more  than 
10,000,000  men,  how  many  aeons 

He  used  to  think  about  these  things  during  quiet 
evenings  in  the  top-floor  room  at  Mrs.  Purp's.  Oc- 
casionally he  went  home  at  night  still  wearing  his  store 
clothes,  because  it  pleased  good  Mrs.  Purp  so  much. 
She  felt  that  it  added  glamour  to  her  house  to  have  him 
do  so,  and  always  called  her  husband,  a  frightened 
silent  creature  with  no  collar  and  a  humble  air,  up  from 
the  basement  to  admire.  Mr.  Purp's  time,  Gissing  sus- 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

pected,  was  irretrievably  wasted — a  good  deal  of  it,  to 
judge  by  his  dusty  appearance,  in  rolling  around  in  ash- 
cans  or  in  the  company  of  the  neighbourhood  boot- 
legger; but  then,  he  reflected,  in  a  charitable  seizure, 
you  must  not  judge  other  people's  time-spendings  by  a 
calculus  of  your  own. 

Perhaps  he  himself  was  growing  a  little  miserly  in 
this  matter.  Indulging  in  the  rare,  the  sovereign  lux- 
ury of  thinking,  he  had  suddenly  become  aware  of 
time's  precious  fluency,  and  wondered  why  everyone 
else  didn't  think  about  it  as  passionately  as  he  did.  In 
the  privacy  of  his  room,  weary  after  the  day  afoot,  he 
took  off  his  cutaway  coat  and  trousers  and  enjoyed  his 
old  habit  of  stretching  out  on  the  floor  for  a  good  rest. 
There  he  would  lie,  not  asleep,  but  in  a  bliss  of  passive 
meditation.  He  even  grudged  Mrs.  Purp  the  little 
chats  she  loved — she  made  a  point  of  coming  up  with 
clean  towels  when  she  knew  he  was  in  his  room,  be- 
cause she  cherished  hearing  him  talk.  When  he  heard 
her  knock,  he  had  to  scramble  hastily  to  his  feet,  get  on 
his  clothes,  and  pretend  he  had  been  sitting  calmly  in 
the  rocking  chair.  It  would  never  do  to  let  her  find 

89 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

him  sprawled  on  the  floor.  She  had  an  almost  pain- 
ful respect  for  him.  Once,  when  prospective  lodgers 
were  bargaining  for  rooms,  and  he  happened  to  be 
wearing  his  Beagle  and  Company  attire,  she  had  asked 
him  to  do  her  the  favour  of  walking  down  the  stairs,  so 
that  the  visitors  might  be  impressed  by  the  gentility  of 
the  establishment. 

Of  course  he  loved  to  waste  time — but  in  his  own 
way.  He  gloated  on  the  irresponsible  vacancy  of  those 
evening  hours,  when  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  He 
lay  very  still,  hardly  even  thinking,  just  feeling  life  go 
by.  Through  the  open  window  came  the  lights  and 
noises  of  the  street.  Already  his  domestic  life  seemed 
dim  and  far  away.  The  shrill  appeals  of  the  puppies, 
their  appalling  innocent  comments  on  existence,  came 
but  faintly  to  memory.  Here,  where  life  beat  so  much 
more  thickly  and  closely,  was  the  place  to  be.  Though 
he  had  solved  nothing,  yet  he  seemed  closer  to  the  heart 
of  the  mystery.  Entranced,  he  felt  time  flowing  on 
toward  him,  endless  in  sweep  and  fulness.  There  is 
only  one  success,  he  said  to  himself — to  be  able  to  spend 
your  life  in  your  own  way,  and  not  to  give  others  ab- 

90 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

surd  maddening  claims  upon  it.    Youth,  youth  is  the 
only  wealth,  for  youth  has  Time  in  its  purse ! 

In  the  store,  however,  philosophy  was  laid  aside.  A 
kind  of  intoxication  possessed  him.  Never  before  had 
old  Mr.  Beagle  (watching  delightedly  from  the  mez- 
zanine balcony)  seen  such  a  floorwalker.  Gissing 
moved  to  and  fro  exulting  in  the  great  tide  of  shopping. 
He  knew  all  the  best  customers  by  name  and  had 
learned  their  peculiarities.  If  a  shower  came  up  and 
Mrs.  Mastiff  was  just  leaving,  he  hastened  to  give  her 
his  arm  as  far  as  her  limousine,  boosting  her  in  so  ex- 
peditiously  that  not  a  drop  of  wetness  fell  upon  her. 
He  took  care  to  find  out  the  special  plat  du  jour  of  the 
store's  lunch  room,  and  seized  occasion  to  whisper  to 
Mrs.  Dachshund,  whose  weakness  was  food,  that  the 
filet  of  sole  was  very  nice  to-day.  Mrs.  Pomeranian 
learned  that  giving  Gissing  a  hint  about  some  new 
Parisian  importations  was  more  effective  than  a  half 
page  ad.  in  the  Sunday  papers.  Within  a  few  hours, 
by  a  judicious  word  here  and  there,  he  would  have  a 
score  of  ladies  hastening  to  the  millinery  salon.  A 
pearl  necklace  of  great  value,  which  Mr.  Beagle  had 

91 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

rebuked  the  jewellery  buyer  for  getting,  because  it 
seemed  more  appropriate  for  a  dealer  in  precious  stones 
than  for  a  department  store,  was  disposed  of  almost  at 
once.  Gissing  casually  told  Mrs.  Mastiff  that  he  had 
heard  Mrs.  Sealyham  intended  to  buy  it.  As  for  Mrs. 
Dachshund,  who  had  had  a  habit  of  lunching  at  Del- 
monico's,  she  now  was  to  be  seen  taking  tiffin  at 
Beagle's  almost  daily.  There  were  many  husbands 
who  would  have  been  glad  to  shoot  him  at  sight  on  the 
first  of  the  month,  had  they  known  who  was  the  real 
cause  of  their  woe. 

Indeed,  Gissing  had  raised  floorwalking  to  a  new 
level.  He  was  more  prime  minister  than  a  mere  pa- 
troller  of  aisles.  With  sparkling  eye,  with  unending 
curiosity,  tact,  and  attention,  he  moved  quietly  among 
the  throng.  He  realized  that  shopping  is  the  female 
paradise;  that  spending  money  she  has  not  earned 
is  the  only  real  fun  an  elderly  and  wealthy  lady 
can  have;  and  if  to  this  primitive  shopping  passion 
can  be  added  the  delights  of  social  amenity — flattery, 
courtesy,  good-humored  flirtation — the  snare  is  com- 
plete. 

92 


He  realized  that  shopping  is  the  female  paradise. 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

But  all  this  is  not  accomplished  without  rousing  the 
jealousy  of  rivals.  Among  the  other  floorwalkers,  and 
particularly  in  the  gorgeously  uniformed  attendant  at 
the  front  door  (who  was  outraged  by  Gissing's  habit 
of  escorting  special  customers  to  their  motors)  moved 
anger,  envy,  and  sneers.  Gissing,  completely  absorbed 
in  the  fascination  of  his  work,  was  unaware  of  this 
hostility,  as  he  was  equally  unaware  of  the  amazed  sat- 
isfaction of  his  employer.  He  went  his  way  with  naive 
and  unconscious  pleasure.  It  did  not  take  long  for 
his  enemies  to  find  a  fulcrum  for  their  chagrin.  One 
evening,  after  closing,  when  he  sat  in  the  dressing  room, 
with  his  feet  in  the  usual  tub  of  hot  water,  placidly  re- 
viewing the  day's  excitements  and  smoking  his  pipe,  the 
superintendent  burst  in. 

"Hey !"  he  exclaimed.  "Don't  you  know  smoking's 
forbidden?  What  do  you  want  to  do,  get  our  fire 
insurance  cancelled?  Get  out  of  here!  You're 
fired!" 

It  did  not  occur  to  Gissing  to  question  or  protest. 
He  had  known  perfectly  well  that  smoking  was  not  al- 
lowed. But  he  was  like  the  stage  hand  behind  the 

93 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

scenes  who  concluded  it  was  all  right  to  light  a  cigarette 
because  the  sign  only  said  SMOKING  FORBIDDEN,  instead 
of  SMOKING  STRICTLY  FORBIDDEN.  He  had  not  troubled 
his  mind  about  it,  one  way  or  another. 


Hey!"  he  exclaimed.     "Don't  you  know 
smoking  s  forbidden?" 

He  had  drawn  his  salary  that  evening,  and  his  first 
thought  was,  Well,  at  any  rate  I've  earned  enough  to 
pay  for  the  clothes.  He  had  been  there  exactly  four 

94 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

weeks.  Quite  calmly,  he  lifted  his  feet  out  of  the  tub 
and  began  to  towel  them  daintily.  The  meticulous 
way  he  dried  between  his  toes  was  infuriating  to  the 
superintendent. 

"Have  you  any  children?"  Gissing  asked,  mildly. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  snapped  the  other. 

"I'll  sell  you  this  bathtub  for  a  quarter.  Take  it 
home  to  them.  They  probably  need  it." 

"You  get  out  of  here  I"  cried  the  angry  official. 

"You'd  be  surprised,"  said  Gissing,  "how  children 
thrive  when  they're  bathed  regularly.  Believe  me,  I 
know." 

He  packed  his  formal  clothes  in  a  neat  bundle,  left 
the  bathtub  behind,  surrendered  his  locker  key,  and 
walked  toward  the  employees'  door,  escorted  by  his 
bristling  superior.  As  they  passed  through  the  empty 
aisles,  scene  of  his  brief  triumph,  he  could  not  help  gaz- 
ing a  little  sadly.  True  merchant  to  the  last,  a  thought 
struck  him.  He  scribbled  a  note  on  the  back  of  a  sales 
slip,  and  left  it  at  Miss  Whippet's  post  by  the  stocking 
counter.  It  said : — 

MISS  WHIPPETT:     Show  Mrs.  Sealyham  some  of  the  bisque 

95 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

sports  hose,  Scotch  wool,  size  Q.     She's  coming  to-morrow. 
Don't  let  her  get  size  8^2.     They  shrink. 

MR.  GISSING. 

At  the  door  he  paused,  relit  his  pipe  leisurely,  raised 
his  hat  to  the  superintendent,  and  strolled  away. 

In  spite  of  this  nonchalance,  the  situation  was  serious. 
His  money  was  at  a  low  ebb.  All  his  regular  income 
was  diverted  to  the  support  of  the  large  household  in  the 
country.  He  was  too  proud  to  appeal  to  his  wealthy 
uncle.  He  hated  also  to  think  of  Mrs.  Purp's  mortifi- 
cation if  she  learned  that  her  star  boarder  was  out  of 
work.  By  a  curious  irony,  when  he  got  home  he  found 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Spaniel : — 

MR.  GISHING,  dere  friend,  the  pupeys  are  'well,  no  insecks, 
and  eat  with  nives  and  forx  Groups  is  the  fattest  but  Yelpers 
is  the  low  Jest  they  send  wags  and  lix  and  glad  to  here  Daddy 
is  doing  so  well  in  buisness  with  respects  from 

MRS.  SPANIEL. 

He  did  not  let  Mrs.  Purp  know  of  the  change  in  his 
condition,  and  every  morning  left  his  lodging  at  the 
usual  time.  By  some  curious  attraction  he  felt  drawn 

96 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

to  that  downtown  region  where  his  kinsman's  office 
was.  That  part  of  the  city  he  had  not  properly  explored. 

It  was  a  world  wholly  different  from  Fifth  Avenue. 
There  was  none  of  that  sense  of  space  and  luxury  he 
had  known  on  the  wide  slopes  of  Murray  Hill.  He 
wandered  under  terrific  buildings,  in  a  breezy  shadow 
where  javelins  of  colourless  sunlight  pierced  through 
thin  slits,  hot  brilliance  fell  in  fans  and  cascades  over 
the  uneven  terrace  of  roofs.  Here  was  where  husbands 
worked  to  keep  Fifth  Avenue  going:  he  wondered 
vaguely  whether  Mrs.  Sealyham  had  bought  those 
stockings?  One  day  he  saw  his  uncle  hurrying  along 
Wall  Street  with  an  intent  face.  Gissing  skipped  into  a 
doorway,  fearing  to  be  recognized.  He  knew  that  the 
old  fellow  would  insist  on  taking  him  to  lunch  at  the 
Pedigree  Club,  would  talk  endlessly,  and  ask  family 
questions.  But  he  was  on  the  scent  of  matters  that  talk 
could  not  pursue. 

He  perceived  a  sense  of  pressure,  of  prodigious 
poetry  and  beauty  and  amazement.  This  was  a  strange 
jungle  of  life.  Tall  coasts  of  windows  stood  up  into  the 
pure  brilliant  sky:  against  their  feet  beat  a  dark  surf  of 

97 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

slums.  In  one  foreign  street,  too  deeply  trenched  for 
sunlight,  oranges  were  the  only  gold.  The  water, 
reaching  round  in  two  arms,  came  close :  there  was  a 
note  of  husky  summons  in  the  whistles  of  passing  craft. 
Almost  everywhere,  sharp  above  many  smells  of  oils 
and  spices,  the  whiff  of  coffee  tingled  his  busy  nose. 
Above  one  huge  precipice  stood  a  gilded  statue — a  boy 
with  wings,  burning  in  the  noon.  Brilliance  flamed 
between  the  vanes  of  his  pinions :  the  intangible  thrust 
of  that  pouring  light  seemed  about  to  hover  him  off  into 
blue  air. 

The  world  of  working  husbands  was  more  tender 
than  that  of  shopping  wives :  even  in  all  their  business, 
they  had  left  space  and  quietness  for  the  dead.  Sunken 
among  the  crags  he  found  two  graveyards.  They  were 
cups  of  placid  brightness.  Here,  looking  upward,  it 
was  like  being  drowned  on  the  floor  of  an  ocean  of  light. 
Husbands  had  built  their  offices  half-way  to  the  sky 
rather  than  disturb  these.  Perhaps  they  appreciate 
rest  all  the  more,  Gissing  thought,  because  they  get  so 
little  of  it?  Somehow  he  could  not  quite  imagine  a 
graveyard  left  at  peace  in  the  shopping  district.  It 

98 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

would  be  bad  for  trade,  perhaps?  Even  the  churches 
on  the  Avenue,  he  had  noticed,  were  huddled  up  and 
hemmed  in  so  tightly  by  the  other  buildings  that  they 
had  scarcely  room  to  kneel.  If  I  ever  become  a  par- 
son, he  said  (this  was  a  fantastic  dream  of  his),  I  will 
insist  that  all  churches  must  have  a  girdle  of  green 
about  them,  to  set  them  apart  from  the  world. 

The  two  little  brown  churches  among  the  cliffs  had 
been  gifted  with  a  dignity  far  beyond  the  dream  of  their 
builders.  Their  pointing  spires  were  relieved  against 
the  enormous  fagades  of  business.  What  other  altars 
ever  had  such  a  reredos?  Above  the  strepitant  racket 
of  the  streets,  he  heard  the  harsh  chimes  of  Trinity  at 
noonday — strong  jags  of  clangour  hurled  against  the 
great  sounding-boards  of  buildings ;  drifting  and  dying 
away  down  side  alleys.  There  was  no  soft  music  of 
appeal  in  the  bronze  volleying :  it  was  the  hoarse  mon- 
itory voice  of  rebuke.  So  spoke  the  church  of  old,  he 
thought:  not  asking,  not  appealing,  but  imperatively, 
sternly,  as  one  born  to  command.  He  thought  with 
new  respect  of  Mr.  Sealyham,  Mr.  Mastiff,  Mr.  Dachs- 
hund, all  the  others  who  were  powers  in  these  fantastic 

99 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

flumes  of  stone.  They  were  more  than  merely  hus- 
bands of  charge  accounts — they  were  poets.  They  sat 
at  lunch  on  the  tops  of  their  amazing  edifices,  and 
looked  off  at  the  blue. 

Day  after  day  went  by,  but  with  a  serene  fatalism 
Gissing  did  nothing  about  hunting  a  job.  He  was 
willing  to  wait  until  the  last  dollar  was  broken :  in  the 
meantime  he  was  content.  You  never  know  the  soul 
of  a  city,  he  said,  until  you  are  down  on  your  luck. 
Now,  he  felt,  he  had  been  here  long  enough  to  under- 
stand her.  She  did  not  give  her  secrets  to  the  world  of 
Fifth  Avenue.  Down  here,  where  the  deep  crevice  of 
Broadway  opened  out  into  greenness,  what  was  the  first 
thing  he  saw?  Out  across  the  harbour,  turned  toward 
open  sea — Liberty!  Liberty  Enlightening  the  World, 
he  had  heard,  was  her  full  name.  Some  had  mocked 
her,  he  had  also  heard.  Well,  what  was  the  gist  of  her 
enlightenment?  Why  this,  surely :  that  Liberty  could 
never  be  more  than  a  statue :  never  a  reality.  Only  a 
fool  would  expect  complete  liberty.  He  himself,  with 
all  his  latitude,  was  not  free.  If  he  were,  he  would 
cook  his  meals  in  his  room,  and  save  money — but  Mrs. 

100 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Purp  was  strict  on  that  point.  She  had  spoken  scath- 
ingly to  two  young  females  she  ejected  for  just  that 
reason.  Nor  was  Mrs.  Purp  free — she  was  ridden  by 
the  Gas  Company.  So  it  went. 

It  struck  him,  now  he  was  down  to  about  three  dol- 
lars, that  a  generous  gesture  toward  Fortune  might  be 
valuable.  When  you  are  nearly  out  of  money,  he  rea- 
soned, to  toss  coins  to  the  gods — i.  e.,  to  buy  something 
quite  unnecessary — may  be  propitiatory.  It  may  start 
something  moving  in  your  direction.  It  is  the  touch  of 
bravado  that  God  relishes.  In  a  sudden  mood  of 
tenderness,  he  bought  two  dollars'  worth  of  toys  and 
had  them  sent  to  the  children.  He  smiled  to  think 
how  they  would  frolic  over  the  jumping  rabbit.  He 
sent  Mrs.  Spaniel  a  postcard  of  the  Aquarium. 

There  is  a  good  deal  more  to  this  business  than  I  had 
realized,  he  said,  as  he  walked  uptown  through  the  East 
Side  slums  that  hot  night.  The  audacity,  the  vitality, 
the  magnificence,  are  plain  enough.  But  I  seem  to  see 
squalor  too,  horror  and  pitiful  dearth.  I  believe  God 
is  farther  off  than  I  thought.  Look  here :  if  the  more 
you  know,  the  less  you  know  about  God,  doesn't  that 

101 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

mean  that  God  is  really  enjoyed  only  by  the  completely 
simple — by  faith,  never  by  reason? 

He  gave  twenty-five  cents  to  a  beggar,  and  said 
angrily:  "I  am  not  interested  in  a  God  who  is  known 
only  by  faith/' 

When  he  got  uptown  he  was  very  tired  and  hungry. 
In  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Purp's  rules,  he  smuggled  in  an 
egg,  a  box  of  biscuits,  a  small  packet  of  tea  and  sugar, 
and  a  tin  of  condensed  milk.  He  emptied  the  milk  into 
his  shaving  mug,  and  used  the  tin  to  boil  water  in,  hold- 
ing it  over  the  gas  jet.  He  was  getting  on  finely  when 
a  sudden  knock  on  the  door  made  him  jump.  He 
spilled  the  hot  water  on  his  leg,  and  uttered  a  wild 
yell.  : 

Mrs.  Purp  burst  in,  but  she  was  so  excited  that  she 
did  not  notice  the  egg  seeping  into  the  clean  counter- 
pane. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gissing,"  she  exclaimed,  "I've  been  wait- 
ing all  evening  for  you  to  come  in.  Purp  and  I  won- 
dered if  you'd  seen  this  in  the  paper  to-night?  Purp 
noticed  it  in  the  ads.,  but  we  couldn't  understand  what 
it  meant." 

102 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

She  held  out  a  page  of  classified  advertising,  in  which 
he  read  with  amazement : 

PERSONAL 

If  MR.  GlSSlNG,  late  floorwalker  at  Beagle  and  Company, 
will  communicate  with  Mr.  Beagle  Senior,  he  will  hear  matters 
greatly  to  his  advantage. 


103 


CHAPTER  NINE 

Y  •  ^HERE  had  been  great  excitement  in  the  private 
offices  of  Beagle  and  Company  after  Gissing's 
sudden  disappearance.  Old  Mr.  Beagle  was 
furious,  and  hotly  scolded  his  son.  In  spite  of  his  ad- 
vanced age,  Beagle  senior  was  still  an  autocrat  and  in- 
sisted on  regulating  the  details  of  the  great  business  he 
had  built  up.  "You  numbskull !"  he  shouted  to  Beagle 
junior,  "that  fellow  was  worth  any  dozen  others  in  the 
place,  and  you  let  him  be  fired  by  a  mongrel  superin- 
tendent/' 

"But,  Papa,"  protested  the  vice-president,  "the  su- 
perintendent had  to  obey  the  rules.  You  know  how 
strict  the  underwriters  are  about  smoking.  Of  course 
he  should  have  warned  Gissing,  instead  of  discharging 

him " 

"Rules!"  interrupted  old  Beagle  fiercely — "Rules 
don't  apply  in  a  case  like  this.  I  tell  you  that  fellow  has 
a  genius  for  storekeeping.  Haven't  I  watched  him  on 
the  floor?  I've  never  seen  one  like  him.  What's  the 

104 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

good  of  your  new-fangled  methods,  your  card  indexes 
and  overhead  charts,  when  you  haven't  even  got  a 
record  of  his  address?" 

Growling  and  showing  his  teeth,  the  head  of  the  firm 
plodded  stiffly  downstairs  and  discharged  the  superin- 
tendent himself.  Already  he  saw  signs  of  disorganiza- 
tion in  the  main  aisle.  Miss  Whippet  was  tearful: 
customers  were  waiting  impatiently  to  have  exchange 
slips  O.  K.'d :  Mrs.  Dachshund  was  turning  over  some 
jewelled  lorgnettes,  but  it  was  plain  that  she  was  only 
"looking,"  and  had  no  intention  to  purchase. 

So  when,  after  many  vain  inquiries,  the  advertise- 
ment reached  its  target,  the  old  gentleman  welcomed 
Gissing  with  genuine  emotion.  He  received  him  into 
his  private  office,  locked  the  door,  and  produced  a  de- 
canter. Evidently  beneath  his  irritable  moods  he  had 
sensibilities  of  his  own. 

"I  have  given  my  life  to  trade,"  he  said,  "and  I  have 
grown  weary  of  watching  the  half-hearted  simpletons 
who  imagine  they  can  rise  to  the  top  by  thinking  more 
about  themselves  than  they  do  about  the  business.  You, 
Mr.  Gissing,  have  won  my  heart.  You  see  storekeep- 

105 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ing  as  I  do — a  fine  art,  an  absorbing  passion,  a  beauti- 
ful, thrilling  sport.  It  is  an  art  as  lovely  and  subtle  as 
the  theatre,  with  the  same  skill  in  wooing  and  charm- 
ing the  public." 

Gissing  bowed,  and  drank  Mr.  Beagle's  health,  to 
cover  his  astonishment.  The  aged  merchant  fixed  him 
with  a  glittering  eye. 

"I  can  see  that  storekeeping  is  your  genius  in  life. 
I  can  see  that  you  are  naturally  consecrated  to  it.  My 
son  is  a  good  steady  fellow,  but  he  lacks  the  divine  gift. 
I  am  getting  old.  We  need  new  fire,  new  brains,  in  the 
conduct  of  this  business.  I  ask  you  to  forgive  the  un- 
lucky blunder  we  made  lately,  and  devote  yourself  to 


us/3 


Gissing  was  very  much  embarrassed.  He  wanted  to 
say  that  if  he  was  going  to  consecrate  himself  to  floor- 
walking,  he  would  relish  a  raise  in  salary;  but  old 
Beagle  was  so  tremulous  and  kept  blowing  his  nose  so 
loudly  that  Gissing  doubted  if  he  could  make  himself 
heard. 

"I  want  you  to  take  a  position  as  General  Manager," 
said  Mr.  Beagle,  "with  a  salary  of  ten  thousand  a  year." 

106 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

He  rose  and  threw  open  a  mahogany  door  that  led 
out  of  his  own  sanctum.  "Here  is  your  office,"  he  said. 

The  bewildered  Gissing  looked  about  the  room  —  the 
mahogany  flat-topped  desk  with  a  great  sheet  of  plate 
glass  shining  greenly  at  its  thick  edges;  an  inkwell, 
pens  and  pencils,  a  little  glass  bowl  full  of  bright  paper- 
clips; one  of  those  rocking  blotters  that  are  so  tempt- 
ing; a  water  cooler  which  just  then  uttered  a  seductive 
gulping  bubble;  an  electric  fan,  gently  humming; 
wooden  trays  for  letters  and  memoranda;  on  one  wall 
a  great  chart  of  names,  lettered  Organization  of  Per- 
sonnel; a  nice  domestic-looking  hat-and-coat  stand;  a 
soft  green  rug  - 

Ah,  how  alluring  it  all  was  ! 

Mr.  Beagle  pointed  to  the  outer  door  of  the  room, 
which  had  a  frosted  pane.  Through  the  glass  the 
astounded  floorwalker  could  read  the  words 


OHI88IO  JIM  ; 

What  a  delightful  little  room  to  meditate  in.    From 
the  broad  windows  he  could  see  the  whole  shining  tide- 

107 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

way  of  Fifth  Avenue,  passing  lazily  in  the  warm  sun- 
light.    He  turned  to  Mr.  Beagle,  greatly  moved. 

The  next  day  an  advertisement  appeared  in  the  lead- 
ing papers,  to  this  effect : — 


BEAGLE  AND  COMPAQ 

take  pleasure  in  announcing  to 
tkcir  patrons  and   friends    tkat 

MR.  GISSING 

Kas  teen  admitted  to  tne  firm  in 
tKe  status  of  General  Manager 

Je  Mainlicndrai 


Mrs.  Purp's  excitement  at  this  is  easier  imagined  than 
described.  Her  only  fear  was  that  now  she  would  lose 
her  best  lodger.  She  made  Purp  go  out  and  buy  a  new 
shirt  and  a  collar;  she  told  Gissing,  rather  pathetically, 
that  she  intended  to  have  the  whole  house  repapered  in 
the  fall.  The  big  double  suite  downstairs,  which  could 
be  used  as  bedroom  and  sitting-room,  she  suggested  as 
a  comfortable  change.  But  Gissing  preferred  to  re- 
main where  he  was.  He  had  grown  fond  of  the  top 
floor. 

Certainly  there  was  an  exhilaration  in  his  new  im- 

108 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

portance  and  prosperity.  The  store  buzzed  with  the 
news.  At  his  request,  Miss  Whippet  was  promoted  to 
the  seventh  floor  to  be  his  secretary.  It  was  delightful 
to  make  his  morning  tour  of  inspection  through  the  vast 
building.  Mr.  Hound,  the  store  detective,  loved  to 
tell  his  cronies  how  suspiciously  he  had  followed  "The 
Duke"  that  first  day.  As  Gissing  moved  through  the 
busy  departments  he  saw  eyes  following  him,  tails  wag- 
ging. Customers  were  more  flattered  than  ever  by 
his  courteous  attentions.  One  day  he  even  held  a  little 
luncheon  party  in  the  restaurant,  at  which  Mrs.  Dachs- 
hund, Mrs.  Mastiff,  and  Mrs.  Sealyham  were  his  guests. 
He  invited  their  husbands,  but  the  latter  were  too  busy 
to  come.  It  would  have  been  more  prudent  of  them  to 
attend.  That  afternoon  Mrs.  Dachshund,  carried  away 
by  enthusiasm,  bought  a  platinum  wrist-watch.  Mrs. 
Mastiff  bought  a  diamond  dog-collar.  Mrs.  Sealyham, 
whose  husband  was  temporarily  embarrassed  in  Wall 
Street,  contented  herself  with  a  Sheraton  chifforobe. 

But  it  began  to  be  evident  that  his  delightful  little 
office  was  not  going  to  be  a  shrine  for  quiet  meditation. 
His  vanity  had  been  pleased  by  the  large  advertisement 

109 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

about  him,  but  he  suddenly  realized  the  poison  that  lies 
in  printer's  ink.  Almost  overnight,  it  seemed,  he  had 
been  added  to  ten  thousand  mailing  lists.  Little  Miss 
Whippet,  although  she  was  fast  at  typewriting,  was 
hard  put  to  it  to  keep  up  with  his  correspondence.  She 
quivered  eagerly  over  her  machine,  her  small  paws  fly- 
ing. New  pink  ribbons  gleamed  through  her  trans- 
lucent summery  georgette  blouse.  They  were  her  flag 
of  exultation  at  her  surprising  rise  in  life.  She  felt  it 
was  immensely  important  to  get  all  these  letters  an- 
swered promptly. 

And  so  did  Gissing.  In  his  new  zeal,  and  in  his  in- 
nocent satisfaction  at  having  entered  the  inner  circle  of 
Big  Business,  he  insisted  on  answering  everything.  He 
did  not  realize  that  dictating  letters  is  the  quaint  diver- 
sion of  business  men,  and  that  most  of  them  mean  noth- 
ing. It  is  simply  the  easiest  way  of  assuring  yourself 
that  you  are  busy. 

This  job  was  no  sinecure.  Old  Mr.  Beagle  had  so 
much  affectionate  confidence  in  Gissing  that  he  re- 
ferred almost  everything  to  him  for  decision.  Mr. 
Beagle  junior,  perhaps  a  little  annoyed  at  the  floor- 

110 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

walker's  meteoric  translation,  spent  the  summer  after- 
noons at  golf.  The  infinite  details  of  a  great  business 
crowded  upon  him.  Inexperienced,  he  had  not  learned 
the  ways  in  which  seasoned  "executives"  protect  them- 
selves against  useless  intrusion.  His  telephone  buzzed 
like  a  hornet.  Not  five  minutes  went  by  without  callers 
or  interruptions  of  some  sort. 

Most  amazing  of  all,  he  found,  was  the  miscellan- 
eous passion  for  palaver  displayed  by  Big  Business. 
Immediately  he  was  invited  to  join  innumerable  clubs, 
societies,  merchants'  associations.  Every  day  would 
arrive  letters,  on  heavily  embossed  paper — "The  Sales 
Managers  Club  will  hold  a  round-table  discussion  on 
Friday  at  one  o'clock.  We  would  greatly  appreciate 
it  if  you  would  be  with  us  and  say  a  few  words." — "Will 
you  be  our  guest  at  the  monthly  dinner  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Guild,  and  give  us  any  preachment  that  is  on 
your  mind?" — "The  Merchandising  Uplift  Group  of 
Murray  Hill  will  meet  at  the  Commodore  for  an  in- 
formal lunch.  It  has  been  suggested  that  you  contrib- 
ute to  the  discussion  on  Underwriting  Overhead." — 
"The  Executives  Association  plans  a  clambake  and 

111 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

barbecue  at  the  Barking  Rock  Country  Club.  Around 
the  bonfire  a  few  impromptu  remarks  on  Business 
Cycles  will  be  called  for.  May  we  count  on  you?" — 
"Will  you  address  the  Convention  of  Knitted  Body- 
garment  Buyers,  on  whatever  topic  is  nearest  your 
heart?" — "Will  you  write  for  Bunion  and  Callous,  the 
trade  organ  of  the  Floorwalkers'  Union,  a  thousand- 
word  review  of  your  career?*' — "Will  you  broadcast  a 
twenty-minute  talk  on  Department  Store  Ethics,  at  the 
radio  station  in  Newark?  250,000  radio  fans  will  be 
listening  in." 

New  to  the  strange  and  high-spirited  world  of  "ex- 
ecutives," it  was  natural  that  Gissing  did  not  realize 
that  the  net  importance  of  this  kind  of  thing  was  abso- 
lute zero.  It  did  strike  him  as  odd,  perhaps,  that  mer- 
chants did  not  dare  to  go  on  a  junket  or  plan  a  con- 
genial dinner  without  pretending  to  themselves  that 
it  had  some  business  significance.  But,  having  been  so 
amazingly  lifted  into  this  atmosphere  of  great  affairs, 
he  felt  it  was  his  duty  to  the  store  to  play  the  game  ac- 
cording to  the  established  rules.  He  was  borne  along 
on  a  roaring  spate  of  conferences,  telephone  calls,  ap- 

112 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

pointments,  Rotarian  lunches,  Chamber  of  Commerce 
dinners,  picnics  to  talk  tariff,  house-parties  to  discuss 
demurrage,  tennis  tournaments  to  settle  the  sales-tax, 


Golf  foursome  to  regulate  price-maintenance 

golf  foursomes  to  regulate  price-maintenance.  Of  all 
these  matters  he  knew  nothing  whatever;  and  he  also 
saw  that  as  far  as  the  business  of  Beagle  and  Company 
was  concerned  it  would  be  better  not  to  waste  his  time 
on  such  side-issues.  The  way  he  could  really  be  of 
service  was  in  the  store  itself,  tactfully  lubricating  that 
complicated  engine  of  goods  and  personalities.  But 
he  learned  to  utter,  when  called  upon,  a  few  suave  gen- 
eralities, barbed  with  a  rollicking  story.  This  made 
him  always  welcome.  He  was  of  a  studious  disposi- 
tion, and  liked  to  examine  this  queer  territory  of  life 

113 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

with  an  unprejudiced  eye.  After  all,  his  inward  secret 
purpose  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  success  or  failure  of 
retail  trade.  He  was  still  seeking  a  horizon  that  would 
stay  blue  when  he  reached  it. 

More  and  more  he  was  interested  to  perceive  how 
transparent  the  mummery  of  business  was.  He  was 
interested  to  note  how  persistently  men  fled  from  suc- 
cess, how  carefully  most  of  them  avoided  the  obvious 
principles  of  utility,  honesty,  prudence,  and  courtesy, 
which  are  inevitably  rewarded.  These  sagacious,  hu- 
morous fellows  who  were  amusing  themselves  with 
twaddling  trade  apothegms  and  ridiculous  banqueteer- 
ing  solemnities,  surely  they  were  aware  that  this  had  no 
bearing  upon  their  own  jobs?  He  suspected  that  it 
was  all  a  feverish  anodyne  to  still  some  inward  unease. 
Since  they  must  (not  being  fools)  be  aware  that  these 
antics  were  mere  subtraction  of  time  from  their  busi- 
ness, the  obvious  conclusion  was,  they  were  not  happy 
with  business.  There  was  some  strange  wistfulness  in 
the  conduct  of  Big  Business  Dogs,  he  thought.  Under 
the  pretence  of  transacting  affairs,  they  were  really  try- 
ing to  discover  something  that  had  eluded  them. 

114 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

The  same  thing,  strangely  enough,  seemed  to  be 
going  on  in  a  sphere  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  the 
world  of  art.  He  gathered  from  the  papers  that  writers, 
painters,  musicians,  were  holding  shindies  almost  every 
night,  at  which  delightful  rebels,  too  busy  to  occupy 
themselves  with  actual  creation,  talked  charmingly 
about  their  plans.  Poets  were  reading  poems  inces- 
santly, forgetting  to  write  any.  Much  of  the  news- 
paper comment  on  literature  made  him  shudder,  for 
though  this  was  a  province  quite  strange  to  him,  he  had 
sound  instincts.  He  discerned  fatal  ignorance  and  ab- 
surdity between  the  pompous  lines.  Yet,  in  its  own 
way,  it  seemed  a  bold  and  honest  ignorance.  Were 
these,  too,  like  the  wistful  executives,  seeking  where  the 
blue  begins? 

But  what  was  this  strange  agitation  that  forbade  his 
fellow-creatures  from  enjoying  the  one  thing  that 
makes  achievement  possible — Solitude?  He  himself, 
so  happy  to  be  left  alone — was  no  one  else  like  that? 
And  yet  this  very  solitude  that  he  craved  and  revelled 
in  was,  by  a  sublime  paradox,  haunted  by  mysterious 
loneliness.  He  felt  sometimes  as  though  his  heart  had 

115 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

been  broken  off  from  some  great  whole,  to  which  it 
yearned  to  be  reunited.  It  felt  like  a  bone  that  had 
been  buried,  which  God  would  some  day  dig  up. 
Sometimes,  in  his  cynomorphic  conception  of  deity,  he 
felt  near  him  the  thunder  of  those  mighty  paws.  In 
rare  moments  of  silence  he  gazed  from  his  office  win- 
dow upon  the  sun-gilded,  tempting  city.  Her  madness 
was  upon  him — her  splendid  craze  of  haste,  ambition, 
pride.  Yet  he  wondered.  This  God  he  needed,  this 
liberating  horizon,  was  it  after  all  in  the  cleverest  of 
hiding-places — in  himself?  Was  it  in  his  own  un- 
deluded  heart? 

Miss  Whippet  came  scurrying  in  to  say  that  the  Dis- 
play Manager  begged  him  to  attend  a  conference.  The 
question  of  apportioning  window  space  to  the  various 
departments  was  to  be  reconsidered.  Also,  the  book 
department  had  protested  having  rental  charged  against 
them  for  books  exhibited  merely  to  add  a  finishing 
touch  to  a  furniture  display.  Other  agenda:  the  Per- 
sonnel Director  wished  an  appointment  to  discuss  the 
ruling  against  salesbitches  bobbing  their  hair.  The 
Commissary  Department  wished  to  present  revised  fig- 

116 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ures  as  to  the  economy  that  would  be  effected  by  putting 
the  employees'  cafeteria  on  the  same  floor  as  the  store's 
restaurant.  He  must  decide  whether  early  closing  on 
Saturdays  would  continue  until  Labor  Day. 


The  ruling  against  salesbitches  bobbing 
their  hair 

As  he  went  about  these  and  a  hundred  other  fasci- 
nating trivialities,  he  had  a  painful  sense  of  treachery  to 
Mr.  Beagle  senior.  The  old  gentleman  was  so  touch- 
ingly  certain  that  he  had  found  in  him  the  ideal  shoul- 

117 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ders  on  which  to  unload  his  honourable  and  crushing 
burden.  With  more  than  paternal  pride  old  Beagle 
saw  Gissing,  evidently  urbane  and  competent,  cheer- 
fully circulating  here  and  there.  The  shy  angel  of 
doubt  that  lay  deep  in  Gissing's  cider-coloured  eye,  the 
proprietor  did  not  come  near  enough  to  observe. 

If  there  is  tragedy  in  our  story,  alas  here  it  is.  Gis- 
sing, incorrigible  seceder  from  responsibilities  that 
did  not  touch  his  soul,  did  not  dare  tell  his  benefactor 
the  horrid  truth.  But  the  worm  was  in  his  heart.  Late 
one  night,  in  his  room  at  Mrs  Purp's,  he  wrote  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Poodle.  After  mailing  it  at  a  street-box,  he  had 
a  sudden  pang.  To  the  dreamer,  decisions  are  fearful. 
Then  he  shook  himself  and  ran  lightly  to  a  little  lunch- 
room on  Amsterdam  Avenue,  where  he  enjoyed  dough- 
nuts and  iced  tea.  His  mind  was  resolved.  The 
doughnuts,  by  a  simple  symbolism,  made  him  think  of 
Rotary  Clubs,  also  of  millstones.  No,  he  must  be  fugi- 
tive from  honour,  from  wealth,  from  Chambers  of 
Commerce.  Fugitive  from  all  save  his  own  instinct. 
Those  who  have  bound  themselves  are  only  too  eager 
to  see  the  chains  on  others.  There  was  no  use  attempt- 

118 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ing  to  explain  to  Mr.  Beagle — the  dear  old  creature 
would  not  understand. 

The  next  day,  after  happily  and  busily  discharging 
his  duties,  and  staying  late  to  clean  up  his  desk,  Gissing 
left  Beagle  and  Company  for  good.  The  only  thing 
that  worried  him,  as  he  looked  round  his  comfortable 
office  for  the  last  time,  was  the  thought  of  little  Miss 
Whippet's  chagrin  when  she  found  her  new  promotion 
at  an  end.  She  had  taken  such  delight  in  their  mutual 
dignity.  On  the  filing  cabinet  beside  her  typewriter 
desk  was  a  pink  geranium  in  a  pot,  which  she  watered 
every  morning.  He  could  not  resist  pulling  out  a 
drawer  of  her  desk,  and  smiled  gently  to  see  the  careful 
neatness  of  its  compartments,  with  all  her  odds  and  ends 
usefully  arranged.  The  ink-eraser,  with  an  absurd 
little  whisk  attached  to  it  for  brushing  away  fragments 
of  rubbed  paper;  the  fascicle  of  sharpened  pencils  held 
together  by  an  elastic  band;  the  tiny  phial  of  typewriter 
oil ;  a  small  box  of  peppermints ;  a  crumpled  handker- 
chief;  the  stenographic  notebook  with  a  pencil  inserted 
at  the  blank  page,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  instant  service 
the  next  day;  the  long  paper-cutter  for  slitting  enve- 

119 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

lopes;  her  memorandum  pad,  on  which  was  written 
Remind  Mr.  G.  of  Window  Display  Luncheon — it 
seemed  cruel  to  deprive  her  of  all  these  innocent  amuse- 
ments in  which  she  delighted  so  much.  And  yet  he 
could  not  go  on  as  a  General  Manager  simply  for  the 
happiness  of  Miss  Whippet. 

In  the  foliage  of  the  geranium,  where  he  knew  she 
would  find  it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  he  left  a 
note : — 

Miss  WHIPPET:  I  am  leaving  the  store  to-night  and  will 
not  be  back.  Please  notify  Mr.  Beagle.  Explain  to  him  that 
I  shall  never  take  a  position  with  one  of  his  competitors;  I 
am  leaving  not  because  I  didn't  enjoy  the  job,  but  because  if  I 
stayed  longer  I  might  enjoy  it  too  much.  Tell  Mr.  Beagle  that 
I  specially  urge  him  to  retain  you  as  assistant  to  the  new  Man- 
ager, whoever  that  may  be.  You  are  entirely  competent  to 
attend  to  the  routine,  and  the  new  Manager  can  spend  all  his 
time  at  business  lunches. 

Please  inform  the  Display  Managers'  Club  that  I  can't  speak 
at  their  meeting  to-morrow. 

I  wish  you  all  possible  good  fortune. 

MR.  GISSING. 

As  he  passed  through  the  dim  and  silent  aisles  of  the 
store,  he  surveyed  them  again  with  mixed  emotions. 

120 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Here  he  might,  apparently,  have  been  king.  But  he 
had  no  very  poignant  regret.  Another  of  his  numerous 
selves,  he  reflected,  had  committed  suicide.  That  was 
the  right  idea:  to  keep  sloughing  them  off,  throwing 
overboard  the  unreal  and  factitious  Gissings,  paring 
them  down  until  he  discovered  the  genuine  and  inalien- 
able creature. 

And  so,  for  the  second  time,  he  made  a  stealthy  exit 
from  the  employees'  door. 

Four  days  later  he  read  in  the  paper  of  old  Mr. 
Beagle's  death.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it. 
The  merchant  died  of  a  broken  heart. 


121 


CHAPTER  TEN 

MR.    POODLE'S    reply   was   disappointing. 
He  said:— 
St.  Bernard's  Rectory, 

September  ist. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  GISSING: 

I  regret  that  I  cannot  conscientiously  see  my  way  to  writing 
to  the  Bishop  in  your  behalf.  Any  testimonial  I  could  compose 
would  be  doubtful  at  best,  for  I  cannot  agree  with  you  that  the 
Church  is  your  true  vocation.  I  do  not  believe  that  one  wha 
has  deserted  his  family,  as  you  have,  and  whose  record  (even 
on  the  most  charitable  interpretation)  cannot  be  described  as 
other  than  eccentric,  would  be  useful  in  Holy  Orders.  You 
say  that  your  life  in  the  city  has  been  a  great  purgation.  If 
so,  I  suggest  that  you  return  and  take  up  the  burdens  laid  upon 
you.  It  has  meant  great  mortification  to  me  that  one  of  my 
own  parish  has  been  the  cause  of  these  painful  rumours  that 
have  afflicted  our  quiet  community.  Notwithstanding,  I  wish 
you  well,  and  hope  that  chastening  experience  may  bring  you 
peace. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  ROVER  POODLE. 

122 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Gissing  meditated  this  letter  in  the  silence  of  a  long 
evening  in  his  room.  He  brought  to  the  problem  his 
favourite  aid  to  clear  thinking — strong  coffee  mixed 
with  condensed  milk.  Mrs.  Purp  had  made  conces- 
sion to  his  peculiarities  when  he  had  risen  so  high  in  the 
world :  better  to  break  any  rules,  she  thought,  than  lose 
so  notable  a  tenant.  She  had  even  installed  a  small 
gas-plate  for  him,  so  that  he  could  brew  his  morning 
and  evening  coffee. 

So  he  took  counsel  with  his  percolator,  whose  bub- 
bling was  a  sound  he  found  both  soothing  and  stimulat- 
ing. He  regarded  it  as  a  kind  of  private  oracle,  with 
a  calm  voice  of  its  own.  He  listened  attentively  as  he 
waited  for  the  liquid  to  darken.  Appeal — to — the — 
Bishop,  Appeal — to — the — Bishop,  seemed  to  be  the 
speech  of  the  jetting  gurgitation  under  the  glass 

lid. 

i 

He  determined  to  act  upon  this,  and  lay  his  case  be- 
fore Bishop  Borzoi  even  without  the  introduction  he 
had  hoped  for.  Fortunately  he  still  had  some  sheets 
of  Beagle  and  Company  note-paper,  with  the  engraved 
lettering  and  Office  of  the  General  Manager  embossed 

123 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

thereon.  He  was  in  some  doubt  as  to  the  proper  for- 
mality and  style  of  address  in  communicating  with  a 
Bishop:  was  it  "Very  Reverend,"  or  "Right  Rev- 
erend"? and  which  of  these  indicated  a  superior  grade 
of  reverendability?  But  he  decided  that  a  masculine 
frankness  would  not  be  amiss.  He  wrote : — 

VERY  RIGHT  REVEREND  BISHOP  BORZOI, 
Dear  Bishop : — 

May  one  of  the  least  of  your  admirers  solicit  an  interview 
with  your  very  right  reverence,  to  discuss  matters  pertaining  to 
religion,  theology,  and  a  possible  vacancy  in  the  Church?  If 
there  are  any  sees  outstanding,  it  would  be  a  favour.  This  is 
very  urgent.  I  enclose  a  stamped  addressed  envelope. 

Respectfully  yours, 

MR.  GISSING. 

A  prompt  reply  from  the  Bishop's  secretary  granted 
him  an  appointment. 

Scrupulously  attired  in  his  tail-coat  and  silk  hat, 
Gissing  proceeded  toward  the  rendezvous.  To  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  nervous :  his  mind  flitted  uneasily  among 
possible  embarrassments.  Suppose  Mr.  Poodle  had 
written  to  the  Bishop  to  prejudice  his  application?  An- 
other, but  more  absurd,  idea  troubled  him.  One  of 

124 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  problems  in  visiting  the  houses  of  the  Great  (he 
had  learned  in  his  brief  career  in  Big  Business)  is  to 
find  the  door-bell.  It  is  usually  mysteriously  con- 
cealed. Suppose  he  should  have  to  peer  hopelessly 
about  the  vestibule,  in  a  shameful  and  suspicious  man- 
ner, until  some  flunky  came  out  to  chide?  In  the 
sunny  park  below  the  Cathedral  he  saw  nurses  sitting 
by  their  puppy-carriages ;  for  an  instant  he  almost  en- 
vied their  gross  tranquillity.  They  have  not  got  (he 
said  to  himself)  to  call  on  a  Bishop ! 

He  was  early,  so  he  strolled  for  a  few  minutes  in  the 
park  that  lies  underneath  that  rocky  scarp.  On  the 
summit,  clear-surging  against  the  blue,  the  great 
church  rode  like  a  ship  on  a  long  ridge  of  sea.  The 
angel  with  a  trumpet  on  the  jut  of  the  roof  was  like  a 
valiant  seaman  in  the  crow's  nest.  His  agitation  was 
calmed  by  this  noble  sight.  Yes,  he  said,  the  Church 
is  a  ship  behind  whose  bulwarks  I  will  find  rest.  She 
sails  an  unworldly  sea:  her  crew  are  exempt  from 
earthly  ambition  and  fallacy. 

He  ran  nimbly  up  the  long  steps  that  scale  the  cliff, 
and  approached  the  episcopal  residence.  The  bell  was 

125 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

plainly  visible.  He  rang,  and  presently  came  a  tidy  lit- 
tle housemaid.  He  had  meditated  a  form  of  words. 
It  would  be  absurd  to  say  "Is  the  Bishop  in?"  for  he 
knew  the  Bishop  was  in.  So  he  said  "This  is  Mr.  Gis- 
sing. I  think  the  Bishop  is  expecting  me." 

Bishop  Borzoi  was  an  impressive  figure — immensely 
tall  and  slender,  with  long,  narrow  ascetic  face  and 
curly  white  hair.  He  was  surprisingly  cordial. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Gissing?"  he  said.  "Sit  down,  sir.  I 
know  Beagle  and  Company  very  well.  Too  well,  in 
fact — Mrs.  Borzoi  has  an  account  there." 

Gissing,  feeling  rather  aghast  and  tentative,  had  no 
comment  ready.  He  was  still  worrying  a  little  as  to 
the  proper  mode  of  address. 

"It  is  very  pleasant  to  find  you  Influential  Merchants 
interested  in  the  Church,"  continued  the  Bishop.  "I 
often  thought  of  approaching  the  late  Mr.  Beagle  on 
the  subject  of  a  small  contribution  to  the  cathedral. 
Indeed,  I  have  spent  so  much  in  your  store  that  it  would 
be  only  a  fair  return.  Mr.  Collie,  of  Greyhound,  Collie 
and  Company,  has  been  very  handsome  with  us :  he  has 
just  provided  for  repaving  the  choir." 

126 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Gissing  began  to  fear  that  the  object  of  his  visit  had 
perhaps  been  misunderstood,  but  the  prelate's  eyes  were 
bright  with  benignant  enthusiasm  and  he  dared  not 
interrupt. 

"You  inquired  most  kindly  in  your  letter  as  to  a  pos- 
sible vacancy  in  the  Church.  Indeed  there  is  a  niche 
in  the  transept  that  I  should  be  happy  to  see  filled.  It 
is  intended  for  some  kind  of  memorial  statue,  and  per- 
haps, in  honour  of  the  late  Mr.  Beagle " 

"I  must  explain,  Sir  Bishop,"  said  Gissing,  very  much 
disturbed,  "that  I  have  left  Beagle  and  Company.  The 
contribution  I  wish  to  make  to  the  Church  is  not  a  dec- 
orative one,  I  fear.  It  is  myself." 

"Yourself?"  queried  the  Bishop,  politely  puzzled. 

"Yes,"  stammered  Gissing,  "I — in  fact,  I  am  hoping 
to — to  enter  the  ministry." 

The  Bishop  was  plainly  amazed,  and  his  long,  aristo- 
cratic nose  seemed  longer  than  ever  as  he  gazed  keenly 
at  his  caller. 

"But  have  you  had  any  formal  training  in  theology?" 

"None,  right  reverend  Bishop,"  said  Gissing.  "But 
it's  this  way,"  and,  incoherently  at  first,  but  with  in- 

127 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

creasing  energy  and  copious  eloquence,  he  poured  out 
the  story  of  his  mental  struggles. 

"This  is  singularly  interesting,"  said  the  Bishop  at 
length.  "I  can  see  that  you  are  wholly  lacking  in  the 
rudiments  of  divinity.  Of  modern  exegesis  and  criti- 
cism you  are  quite  innocent.  But  you  evidently  have 
something  which  is  much  rarer — what  the  Quakers 
call  a  concern.  Of  course  you  should  really  go  to  the 
theological  seminary  and  establish  this  na'if  intuitive 
mysticism  upon  a  disciplined  basis.  You  will  realize 
that  we  churchmen  can  only  meet  modern  rationalism 
by  a  rationalism  of  our  own — by  a  philosophical  schol- 
arship which  is  unshakable.  I  do  not  suppose  that  you 
can  even  harmonize  the  Gospels?" 

Gissing  ruefully  admitted  his  ignorance. 

"Well,  at  least  I  must  make  sure  of  a  few  funda- 
mentals," said  the  Bishop.  "Of  course  a  symbological 
latitude  is  permissible,  but  there  are  some  essentials  of 
dogma  and  creed  that  may  not  be  foregone." 

He  subjected  the  candidate  to  a  rapid  catechism. 
Gissing,  in  a  state  of  mind  curiously  mingled  of  excite- 
ment and  awe,  found  himself  assenting  to  much  that, 

128 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

in  a  calmer  moment,  he  would  hardly  have  admitted; 
but  having  plunged  so  deep  into  the  affair  he  felt  it 
would  be  the  height  of  discourtesy  to  give  negative  an- 
swers to  any  of  the  Bishop's  queries.  By  dint  of  hasty 
mental  adjustments  and  symbolic  interpretations,  he 
satisfied  his  conscience. 

"It  is  very  irregular,"  the  Bishop  admitted,  "but  I 
must  confess  that  your  case  interests  me  greatly.  Of 
course  I  cannot  admit  you  to  ordination  until  you  have 
passed  through  the  regular  theological  curriculum. 
Yet  I  find  you  singularly  apt  for  one  without  proper 
training." 

He  brooded  awhile,  fixing  the  candidate  with  a  clear 
darkly  burning  eye. 

"It  struck  me  that  you  were  a  trifle  vague  upon  some 
of  the  Articles  of  Religion,  and  the  Table  of  Kindred 
and  Affinity.  You  must  remember  that  these  articles 
are  not  to  be  subjected  to  your  own  sense  or  comment, 
but  must  be  taken  in  the  literal  and  grammatical  mean- 
ing. However,  you  show  outward  and  visible  signs 
of  an  inward  and  spiritual  grace.  It  so  happens  that 
I  know  of  a  small  chapel,  in  the  country,  that  has  been 

129 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

closed  for  lack  of  a  minister.    I  can  put  you  in  charge 
there  as  lay  reader." 

Gissing's  face  showed  his  elation. 

"And  wear  a  cassock?"  he  cried. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  Bishop  sternly.  "Not  even 
a  surplice.  You  must  remember  you  have  not  been 
ordained.  If  you  are  serious  in  your  zeal,  you  must 
work  your  way  up  gradually,  beginning  at  the  bot- 
tom. 

"I  have  seen  some  of  your  cloth  with  a  little  purple 
dickey  which  looks  very  well  in  the  aperture  of  the 
waist-coat,"  said  Gissing  humbly.  "How  long  would 
it  take  me  to  work  up  to  that?" 

Bishop  Borzoi,  who  had  a  sense  of  humour,  laughed 
genially. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "It's  a  fine  afternoon:  I'll 
order  my  car  and  we'll  drive  out  to  Dalmatian  Heights. 
I'll  show  you  your  chapel,  and  tell  you  exactly  what 
your  duties  will  be." 

Gissing  was  startled.  Dalmatian  Heights  was  only 
a  few  miles  from  the  Canine  Estates.  If  the  news 
should  reach  Mr.  Poodle  .  .  . 

130 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Sir  Bishop/'  he  said  nervously,  "I  begin  to  fear  that 
perhaps  after  all  I  am  unworthy.    Now  about  those 


"/  have  seen  some  of  your  cloth  with 
a  little  purple  dickey  which  looks  very 
well  in  the  aperture  of  the  waist-coat,'9 
said  Gissing  humbly 

Articles  of  Religion:  I  may  perhaps  have  given  some 
of  them  a  conjectural  and  commentating  assent.  Pos- 
sibly I  have  presumed  too  far " 

131 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

The  Bishop  was  already  looking  forward  to  a  ride 
into  the  country  with  his  unusual  novice. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  he  said  cheerily.  "In  a  mere 
lay  reader,  a  slight  laxity  is  allowable.  You  under- 
stand, of  course,  that  you  are  expressly  restricted  from 
the  pulpit.  You  will  have  to  read  the  lessons,  conduct 
the  service,  and  may  address  the  congregation  upon 
matters  not  homiletic  nor  doctrinal;  preaching  and 
actual  entry  into  the  pulpit  are  defended.  But  I  see 
excellent  possibility  in  you.  Perform  the  duties  punct- 
ually in  this  very  lowly  office,  and  high  ranks  of  service 
in  the  church  militant  will  be  open." 

He  put  on  a  very  fine  shovel  hat,  and  led  the  way  to 
his  large  touring  car. 

It  was  a  very  uncomfortable  ride  for  Gissing.  A 
silk  hat  is  the  least  stable  apparel  for  swift  motoring, 
and  the  chauffeur  drove  at  high  speed.  The  Bishop, 
leaning  back  in  the  open  tonneau,  crossed  one  deli- 
cately slender  shank  over  another,  gazed  in  a  kind  of 
ecstasy  at  the  countryside,  and  talked  gaily  about  his 
days  as  a  young  curate.  Gissing  sat  holding  his  hat  on, 
He  saw  only  too  well  that,  by  the  humiliating  oddity 

132 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

of  chance,  they  were  going  to  take  the  road  that  led  ex- 
actly past  his  own  house.  He  could  only  hope  that 
Mrs.  Spaniel  and  the  various  children  would  not  be 
visible,  for  explanations  would  be  too  complicated. 
Desperately,  he  praised  the  view  to  be  obtained  on  an- 
other road,  but  Bishop  Borzoi  was  too  interested  in  his 
own  topic  to  pay  much  attention. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  latter,  as  they  drew  near  the 
familiar  region,  "I  must  introduce  you  to  Miss  Aire- 
dale. She  lives  in  the  big  place  on  the  hill  over  there. 
Her  family  always  used  to  attend  what  I  will  now  call 
your  chapel;  she  is  a  very  ardent  churchgoer,  and  it 
was  a  sincere  grief  to  her  when  the  place  had  to  be 
closed.  You  will  find  her  a  great  aid  and  comfort; 
not  only  that,  she  is — what  one  does  not  always  find  in 
the  devouter  members  of  her  sex — young  and  beautiful. 
I  think  I  understood  you  to  say  you  are  a  bachelor?" 

They  were  approaching  the  last  turning  at  which 
it  was  still  possible  to  avoid  the  fatal  road,  and  Gissing's 
attention  was  divided. 

"Yes,  after  a  fashion,"  he  replied.  "Bishop,  do  you 
know  that  road  down  into  the  valley?  The  view  is 

133 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

really  superb — Yes,  that  road — Oh,  no,  I  am  a  bach- 
elor  " 

It  was  too  late.  The  chauffeur,  unconscious  of  this 
private  crisis,  was  spinning  along  the  homeward  way. 
With  a  tender  emotion  Gissing  saw  the  spires  of  the 
poplar  trees,  the  hemlocks  down  beyond  the  pond,  the 
fringe  of  woods  that  concealed  the  house  until  you  were 
quite  upon  it 

The  car  swerved  suddenly  and  the  driver  only  saved 
it  by  a  quick  and  canny  manoeuvre  from  going  down 
the  bank.  He  came  to  a  stop,  and  almost  from  under- 
neath the  rear  wheels  appeared  a  scuffling  dusty  group 
of  youngsters  who  had  been  playing  in  the  road.  There 
they  were — Bunks,  Groups,  and  Yelpers  (inordinately 
grown!)  and  two  of  the  Spaniels.  Their  clothes  were 
deplorable,  their  faces  grimed,  their  legs  covered  with 
burrs,  their  whole  demeanour  was  ragamuffin  and  wild  : 
yet  Gissing  felt  a  pang  of  pride  to  see  his  godchildren's 
keen,  independent  bearing  contrasted  with  the  rowdier, 
disreputable  look  of  the  young  Spaniels.  Quickly  he 
averted  his  head  to  escape  recognition.  But  the  urchins 
were  all  gaping  at  the  Bishop's  shovel  hat. 

134 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Hot  dog !"  cried  Yelpers.    "Some  hat !"  fl 

To  his  horror,  Gissing  now  saw  Mrs.  Spaniel,  hasten- 
ing in  alarm  down  from  the  house,  spilling  potatoes 
from  her  apron  as  she  ran.  He  hurriedly  urged  the 
driver  to  proceed. 

"What  terrible  looking  children,"  observed  the 
Bishop,  who  seemed  fascinated  by  their  stare.  "Really, 
my  good  sister,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Spaniel,  who  was  now 
panting  by  the  running  board;  "you  must  keep  them  off 
the  road  or  someone  will  get  hurt." 

Gissing  was  looking  for  an  imaginary  object  on  the 
floor  of  the  car.  To  his  great  relief  he  heard  the  roar 
of  the  motor  as  they  started  again.  But  he  sat  up  a 
little  too  soon.  A  simultaneous  roar  of  "Daddy!" 
burst  from  the  trio. 

"What  was  that  they  were  shouting  at  us?"  inquired 
the  Bishop,  looking  back. 

Gissing  shook  his  head.  He  was  too  overcome  to 
speak. 


135 


i 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

little  chapel  at  Dalmatian  Heights  sat  upon 
a  hill,  among  a  grove  of  pines,  the  most  ro- 
mantic of  all  trees.  Life,  a  powerful  but 
clumsy  dramatist,  does  not  reject  the  most  claptrap  "sit- 
uations," which  a  sophisticated  playwright  would  dis- 
card as  too  obvious.  For  this  sandy  plateau,  strewn 
with  satiny  pine-needles,  was  the  very  horizon  that  had 
looked  so  blue  and  beckoning  from  the  little  house  by 
the  pond.  Not  far  away  was  the  great  Airedale  estate, 
which  Gissing  had  known  only  at  an  admiring  distance 
— and  now  he  was  living  there  as  an  honoured 
guest. 

The  Bishop  had  taken  him  to  call  upon  the  Airedales ; 
and  they,  delighted  that  the  chapel  was  to  be  re-opened, 
had  insisted  upon  his  staying  with  them.  The  chapel, 
in  fact,  was  a  special  interest  with  Mr.  Airedale,  who 
had  been  a  leading  contributor  toward  its  erection. 
Gissing  was  finding  that  life  seemed  to  be  continually 

136 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

putting  him  into  false  positions;  and  now  he  discov- 
ered, somewhat  to  his  chagrin,  that  the  lovely  little 
shrine  of  St.  Spitz,  whose  stained  windows  glowed  like 
rubies  in  its  cloister  of  dark  trees,  was  rather  a  fashion- 
able hobby  among  the  wealthy  land-owners  of  Dalma- 
tian Hills.  It  had  been  closed  all  summer,  and  they 
had  missed  it.  The  Bishop,  in  his  airy  and  indefinite 
way,  had  not  made  it  quite  plain  that  Gissing  was  only  a 
lay  reader;  and  in  spite  of  his  embarrassed  disclaimers, 
he  found  himself  introduced  by  Mr.  Airedale  to  the 
country-house  clique  as  the  new  "vicar." 

But  at  any  rate  it  was  lucky  that  the  Airedales  had 
insisted  on  taking  him  in  as  a  guest;  for  he  had  learned 
from  the  Bishop  (just  as  the  latter  was  leaving)  that 
there  was  no  stipend  attached  to  the  office  of  lay  reader. 
Fortunately  he  still  had  much  of  the  money  he  had 
saved  from  his  salary  as  General  Manager.  And  what- 
ever sense  of  anomaly  he  felt  was  quickly  assuaged  by 
the  extraordinary  comfort  and  novelty  of  his  environ- 
ment. In  the  great  Airedale  mansion  he  experienced 
for  the  first  time  that  ultimate  triumph  of  civilization — 
a  cup  of  tea  served  in  bed  before  breakfast,  with  slices 

137 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

of  bread-and-butter  of  tenuous  and  amazing  fragile 
thinness.  He  was  pleased,  too,  with  the  deference  paid 
him  as  a  representative  of  the  cloth,  even  though  it  com- 
pelled him  to  a  solemnity  he  did  not  inwardly  feel. 
But  most  of  all,  undoubtedly,  he  was  captivated  by  the 
loveliness  and  warmth  of  Miss  Airedale. 

The  Bishop  had  not  erred.  Admiring  the  aristo- 
cratic Roman  trend  of  her  brow  and  nose;  the  proud, 
inquisitive  carriage  of  her  somewhat  rectangular  head; 
her  admirable,  vigorous  figure  and  clear  topaz  eyes, 
Gissing  was  aware  of  something  he  had  not  experi- 
enced before — a  disturbance  both  urgent  and  agree- 
able, in  which  the  intellect  seemed  to  play  little  part. 
He  was  startled  by  the  strength  of  her  attractiveness, 
amazed  to  learn  how  pleasing  it  was  to  be  in  her  com- 
pany. She  was  very  young  and  brisk :  wore  clothes  of 
a  smart  sporting  cut,  and  was  (he  thought)  quite  divine 
in  her  riding  breeches.  But  she  was  also  completely 
devoted  to  the  chapel,  where  she  played  the  music  on 
Sundays.  She  was  a  volatile  creature,  full  of  mischiev- 
ous surprise:  at  their  first  music  practice,  after  play- 
ing over  some  hymns  on  the  pipe-organ,  she  burst  into 

138 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

jazz,  filling  the  quiet  grove  with  the  clamorous  syncope 
of  Paddy  Paws,  a  favourite  song  that  summer. 

So  into  the  brilliant  social  life  of  the  Airedales  and 
their  friends  he  found  himself  suddenly  pitchforked. 
In  spite  of  the  oddity  of  the  situation,  and  of  occasional 
anxiety  when  he  considered  the  possibility  of  Mr. 
Poodle  finding  him  out,  he  was  very  happy.  This  was 
not  quite  what  he  had  expected,  but  he  was  always 
adaptable.  Miss  Airedale  was  an  enchanting  compan- 
ion. In  the  privacy  of  his  bedroom  he  measured  him- 
self for  a  pair  of  riding  breeches  and  wrote  to  his  tailor 
in  town  to  have  them  made  as  soon  as  possible.  He 
served  the  little  chapel  assiduously,  though  he  felt  it 
better  to  conceal  from  the  Airedales  the  fact  that  he 
went  there  every  day.  He  suspected  they  would  think 
him  slightly  mad  if  they  knew,  so  he  used  to  pretend 
that  he  had  business  in  town.  Then  he  would  slip 
away  to  the  balsam-scented  hilltop  and  be  perfectly 
happy  sweeping  the  chapel  floor,  dusting  the  pews,  pol- 
ishing the  brasswork,  rearranging  the  hymnals  in  the 
racks.  He  arranged  with  the  milkman  to  leave  a  bottle 
of  milk  and  some  cinnamon  buns  at  the  chapel  gate 

139 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

every  morning,  so  he  had  a  cheerful  and  stealthy  little 
lunch  in  the  vestry-room,  though  always  a  trifle  nervous 
lest  some  of  his  parishioners  should  discover  him. 

He  practised  reading  the  lessons  aloud  at  the  brass 
lectern,  and  discovered  how  easy  is  dramatic  elocution 
when  you  are  alone.  He  wished  it  were  possible  to 
hold  a  service  daily.  For  the  first  time  he  was  able  to 
sing  hymns  as  loud  as  he  liked.  Miss  Airedale  played 
the  organ  with  emphatic  fervour,  and  the  congregation, 
after  a  little  hesitation,  enjoyed  the  lusty  sincerity  of  a 
hymn  well  trolled.  Some  of  his  flock,  who  had  pre- 
viously relished  taking  part  in  the  general  routine  of 
the  service,  were  disappointed  by  his  zeal,  for  Gissing 
insisted  on  doing  everything  himself.  He  rang  the 
bell,  ushered  the  congregation  to  their  seats,  read  the 
service,  recited  the  Quadrupeds'  Creed,  led  the  choir, 
gave  out  as  many  announcements  as  he  could  devise, 
took  up  the  collection,  and  at  the  close  skipped  out 
through  the  vestry  and  was  ready  and  beaming  in  the 
porch  before  the  nimblest  worshipper  had  reached  the 
door.  On  his  first  Sunday,  indeed,  he  carried  enthusi- 
asm rather  too  far:  in  an  innocent  eagerness  to  prolong 

140 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  service  as  much  as  possible,  and  being  too  excited 
to  realize  quite  what  he  was  doing,  he  went  through  the 
complete  list  of  supplications  for  all  possible  occasions. 
The  congregation  were  startled  to  find  themselves  pray- 
ing simultaneously  both  for  rain  and  for  fair  weather. 

In  a  cupboard  in  the  vestry-room  he  had  found  an  old 
surplice  hanging ;  he  took  it  down,  tried  it  on  before  the 
mirror,  and  wistfully  put  it  back.  To  this  symbolic 
vestment  his  mind  returned  as  he  sat  solitary  under  the 
pine-trees,  looking  down  upon  the  valley  of  home.  It 
was  the  season  of  goldenrod  and  aster  on  the  hillsides : 
a  hot  swooning  silence  lay  upon  the  late  afternoon. 
The  weight  and  closeness  of  the  air  had  struck  even  the 
insects  dumb.  Under  the  pines,  generally  so  murmur- 
ous, there  was  something  almost  gruesome  in  the  blank 
stillness :  a  suspension  so  absolute  that  the  ears  felt  dull 
and  sealed.  He  tried,  involuntarily,  to  listen  more 
clearly,  to  know  if  this  uncanny  hush  were  really  so. 
There  was  a  sense  of  being  imprisoned,  but  only  most 
delicately,  in  a  spell,  which  some  sudden  cracking 
might  disrupt. 

The  surplice  tempted  him  strongly,  for  it  suggested 

141 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  sermon  he  felt  impelled  to  deliver,  against  the 
Bishop's  orders.  For  the  beautiful  chapel  in  the  piny 
glade  was,  somehow,  false :  or,  at  any  rate,  false  for  him. 
The  architect  had  made  it  a  dainty  poem  in  stone  and 
polished  wood,  but  somehow  God  had  evaded  the  neat 
little  trap.  Moreover,  the  God  his  well-bred  congre- 
gation worshipped,  the  old  traditionally  imagined 
snow-white  St.  Bernard  with  radiant  jowls  of  tender- 
ness, shining  dewlaps  of  love;  paternal,  omnipotent, 
calm — this  deity,  though  sublime  in  its  way,  was  too 
plainly  an  extension  of  their  own  desires.  His  prom- 
inent parishioners — Mr.  Dobermann-Pinscher,  Mrs. 
Griffon,  Mrs.  Retriever;  even  the  delightful  Mr.  Aire- 
dale himself — was  it  not  likely  that  they  esteemed  a 
deity  everlastingly  forgiving  because  they  themselves 
felt  need  of  forgiveness?  He  had  been  deeply  shocked 
by  the  docility  with  which  they  followed  the  codes  of 
the  service :  even  when  he  had  committed  his  blunder 
of  the  contradictory  prayers,  they  had  murmured  the 
words  automatically,  without  protest.  To  the  terrific 
solemnities  of  the  Litany  they  had  made  the  responses 
with  prompt  gabbling  precision,  and  with  a  rapidity 

142 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

that  frankly  implied  impatience  to  take  the  strain  off 
their  knees. 

Somehow  he  felt  that  to  account  for  a  world  of  un- 
utterable strangeness  they  had  invented  a  God  far  too 
cheaply  simple.  His  mood  was  certainly  not  one  of 
ribald  easy  scoff.  It  was  they  (he  assured  himself) 
whose  theology  was  essentially  cynical;  not  he.  He 
was  a  little  weary  of  this  just,  charitable,  consoling, 
hebdomadal  God;  this  God  who  might  be  sufficiently 
honoured  by  a  decorously  memorized  ritual.  Yet  was 
he  too  shallow?  Was  it  not  seemly  that  his  fellows, 
bound  on  this  dark,  desperate  venture  of  living,  should 
console  themselves  with  decent  self-hypnosis? 

No,  he  thought.  No,  it  was  not  entirely  seemly.  If 
they  pretended  that  their  God  was  the  highest  thing 
knowable,  then  they  must  bring  to  His  worship  the 
highest  possible  powers  of  the  mind.  He  had  a  strange 
yearning  for  a  God  less  lazily  conceived:  a  God  per- 
haps inclement,  awful,  master  of  inscrutable  principles. 
Yet  was  it  desirable  to  shake  his  congregation's  belief 
in  their  traditional  divinity?  He  thought  of  them — so 
amiable,  amusing,  spirited  and  generous,  but  utterly 

143 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

untrained  for  abstract  imaginative  thought  on  any  sub- 
ject whatever.  His  own  strange  surmisings  about 
deity  would  only  shock  and  horrify  them.  And  after 
all,  was  it  not  exactly  their  simplicity  that  made  them 
lovable?  The  great  laws  of  truth  would  work  their 
own  destinies  without  assistance  from  him!  Even  if 
these  pleasant  creatures  did  not  genuinely  believe  the 
rites  they  so  politely  observed  (he  knew  they  did  not, 
for  belief  is  an  intellectual  process  of  extraordinary 
range  and  depth),  was  it  not  socially  useful  that  they 
should  pretend  to  do  so? 

And  yet — with  another  painful  swing  of  the  mind — 
was  it  necessary  that  Truth  should  be  worshipped  with 
the  aid  of  such  astonishingly  transparent  formalisms, 
hoaxes,  and  mummeries?  Alas,  it  seemed  that  this 
was  an  old,  old  struggle  that  must  be  troublesomely 
fought  out,  again  and  again  down  the  generations. 
Prophets  were  twice  stoned — first  in  anger;  then,  after 
their  death,  with  a  handsome  slab  in  the  graveyard. 
But  words  uttered  in  sincerity  (he  thought)  never  fail 
of  some  response.  Though  he  saw  his  fellows  leashed 
with  a  heavy  chain  of  ignorance,  stupidity,  passion, 

144 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

and  weakness,  yet  he  divined  in  life  some  inscrutable 
principle  of  honour  and  justice;  some  unreckonable 
essence  of  virtue  too  intimate  to  understand;  some 
fumbling  aspiration  toward  decency,  some  brave  gen- 
erosity of  spirit,  some  cheerful  fidelity  to  Beauty.  He 
could  not  see  how,  in  a  world  so  obviously  vast  and  un- 
couth beyond  computation,  they  could  find  a  puny, 
tidy,  assumptive,  scheduled  worship  so  satisfying.  But 
perhaps,  since  all  Beauty  was  so  staggering,  it  was 
better  they  should  cherish  it  in  small  formal  minims. 
Perhaps  in  this  whole  matter  there  was  some  lovely 
symbolism  that  he  did  not  understand. 

The  soft  brightness  was  already  lifting  into  upper 
air,  a  mingled  tissue  of  shadows  lay  along  the  valley. 
In  the  magical  clarity  of  the  evening  light  he  suddenly 
felt  (as  one  often  does,  by  unaccountable  planetary  in- 
stinct) that  there  was  a  new  moon.  Turning,  he  saw 
it,  a  silver  snipping  daintily  afloat;  and  not  far  away, 
an  early  star.  He  had  found  no  creed  in  the  prayer- 
book  that  accounted  for  the  stars.  Here,  at  the  bottom 
of  an  ocean  of  sky,  we  look  aloft  and  see  them  thick- 
speckled — mere  barnacles,  perhaps,  on  the  keel  of  some 

145 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

greater  ship  of  space.  He  remembered  how  at  home 
there  had  been  a  certain  burning  twinkle  that  peeped 
through  the  screen  of  the  dogwood  tree.  As  he  moved 
on  his  porch,  it  seemed  to  flit  to  and  fro,  appearing  and 
vanishing.  He  was  often  uncertain  whether  it  was  a 
firefly  a  few  yards  away,  or  a  star  the  other  side  of  Time. 
Possibly  Truth  was  like  that. 

There  was  a  light  swift  rustle  behind  him,  and  Miss 
Airedale  appeared. 

"Hullo!"  she  said.  "I  wondered  where  you  were. 
Is  this  how  you  spend  your  afternoons,  all  alone?" 

Stars,  creeds,  cosmologies,  promptly  receded  into  re- 
mote perspective  and  had  to  shift  for  themselves.  It 
was  true  that  Gissing  had  somewhat  avoided  her  lately, 
for  he  feared  her  fascination.  He  wished  nothing  else 
to  interfere  with  his  search  for  what  he  had  not  yet 
found.  Postpone  the  female  problem  to  the  last,  was 
his  theory:  not  because  it  was  insoluble,  but  be- 
cause the  solution  might  prove  to  be  less  interesting 
than  the  problem  itself.  But  side  by  side  with  her, 
she  was  irresistible.  A  skittish  brightness  shone  in 
her  eyes. 

146 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Great  news !"  she  exclaimed.  "I've  persuaded  Papa 
to  take  us  all  down  to  Atlantic  City  for  a  couple  of 
days."  j 

"Wonderful!"  cried  Gissing.  "Do  you  know,  I've 
never  been  to  the  seashore." 

"Don't  worry,"  she  replied.  "I  won't  let  you  see 
much  of  the  ocean.  We'll  go  to  the  Traymore,  and 
spend  the  whole  time  dancing  in  the  Submarine  Grill." 

"But  I  must  be  back  in  time  for  the  service  on  Sun- 
day," he  said. 

"We're  going  to  leave  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
We'll  go  in  the  car,  and  I'll  drive.  Will  you  sit  with 
me  in  the  front  seat?" 

"Watch  me !"  replied  Gissing  gallantly. 

"Come  on  then,  or  you'll  be  late  for  dinner.  I'll 
race  you  home  1"  And  she  was  off  like  a  flash. 

But  in  spite  of  Miss  Airedale's  threat,  at  Atlantic  City 
they  both  fell  into  a  kind  of  dreamy  reverie.  The  wine- 
like  tingle  of  that  salty  air  was  a  quiet  drug.  The  ap- 
parently inexhaustible  sunshine  was  sharpened  with  a 
faint  sting  of  coming  autumn.  Gissing  suddenly  re- 

147 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

membered  that  it  was  ages  since  he  had  simply  let  his 
mind  run  slack  and  allowed  life  to  go  by  unstudied. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Airedale  occupied  a  suite  high  up  in  the 
terraced  mass  of  the  huge  hotel ;  they  wrapped  them- 
selves in  rugs  and  basked  on  their  private  balcony.  Gis- 
sing  and  the  daughter  were  left  to  their  own  amuse- 
ments. They  bathed  in  the  warm  September  surf; 
they  strolled  the  Boardwalk  up  beyond  the  old  Absecon 
light,  where  the  green  glimmer  of  water  runs  in  under 
the  promenade.  They  sat  on  the  deck  of  the  hotel — 
or  rather  Miss  Airedale  sat,  while  Gissing,  courteously 
attentive,  leaned  over  her  steamer-chair.  He  stood  so 
for  hours,  apparently  in  devoted  chat;  but  in  fact  he 
was  half  in  dream.  The  smooth  flow  of  the  little  rolling 
shays  just  below  had  a  soothing  hypnotic  effect.  But 
it  was  the  glorious  polished  blue  of  the  sea-horizon  that 
bounded  all  his  thoughts.  Even  while  Miss  Airedale 
gazed  archly  up  at  him,  and  he  was  busy  with  cheerful 
conversation,  he  was  conscious  of  that  broad  band  of 
perfect  colour,  monotonous,  comforting,  thrilling. 
For  the  first  time  he  realized  the  great  rondure  of  the 
world.  His  mind  went  back  to  the  section  of  the 

148 


His  alarmed  soul  thrilled  with  panic.     "You  must  excuse  me  a  moment, 
while  I  dress  for  dinner"  he  said. 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

prayer-book  that  had  always  touched  him  most  point- 
edly— the  "Forms  of  Prayer  to  be  Used  at  Sea."  In 
them  he  had  found  a  note  of  sincere  terror  and  humility. 
And  now  he  viewed  the  sea  for  the  first  time  in  this  set- 
ting of  notable  irony.  The  open  dazzle  of  placid  ele- 
ments, obedient  only  to  some  cosmic  calculus,  lay  as 
a  serene  curtain  against  which  the  quaint  flamboyance 
of  the  Boardwalk  was  all  the  more  amusing.  The  clear 
rim  of  sea  curving  off  into  space  drew  him  with  painful 
curiosity.  Here  at  last  was  what  he  had  needed.  The 
proud  waters  went  over  his  soul.  Here  indeed  the  blue 
began. 

He  looked  down  at  Miss  Airedale,  who  had  gone  to 
sleep  while  waiting  for  him  to  say  something.  He  tip- 
toed away  and  went  to  his  room  to  write  down  some 
ideas.  Against  the  wide  challenge  of  that  blue  hemi- 
sphere, where  half  the  world  lay  open  and  free  to  the 
eye,  the  Bishop's  prohibition  lost  weight.  He  was  re- 
solved to  preach  a  sermon. 

At  dusk  he  met  Miss  Airedale  on  the  high  balcony 
that  runs  around  the  reading-room  of  the  hotel.  They 
were  quite  alone  up  there.  Along  the  Boardwalk,  in 

149 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

the  pale  sentimental  twilight,  the  translucent  electric 
globes  shone  like  a  long  string  of  pearls.  She  was 
very  tempting  in  a  gay  evening  frock,  and  reproached 
him  for  having  neglected  her.  She  shivered  a  little 
in  the  cool  wind  coming  off  the  darkening  water.  The 
weakness  of  the  hour  was  upon  him.  He  put  his 
arm  tenderly  round  her  as  they  leaned  over  the 
parapet. 

"See  those  darling  children  down  on  the  sand,"  she 
said.  "I  do  adore  puppies,  don't  you?" 

He  remembered  Groups,  Bunks,  and  Yelpers.  Noth- 
ing is  so  potent  as  the  love  of  children  when  you  are 
away  from  them.  She  gazed  languishing  at  him;  he 
responded  with  a  generous  pressure.  But  his  alarmed 
soul  thrilled  with  panic. 

"You  must  excuse  me  a  moment,  while  I  dress  for 
dinner,"  he  said.  He  was  strangely  terrified  by  the 
look  of  secret  understanding  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  imply  some  subtle,  inexpressible  pact.  As 
a  matter  of  truth,  she  was  unconscious  of  it :  it  was  only 
the  old  demiurge  speaking  in  her;  the  old  demiurge 
which  was  pursuing  him  just  as  ardently  as  he  was 

150 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

trailing  the  dissolving  blue  of  his  dream.  But  he  was 
much  agitated  as  he  went  down  in  the  elevator. 

"Heavens,"  he  said  to  himself;  "are  we  all  only  toys 
in  the  power  of  these  terrific  instincts?"  For  the  first 
time  he  was  informed  of  the  infinite  feminine  capacity 
for  being  wooed. 

That  night  they  danced  in  the  Submarine  Grill.  She 
floated  in  his  embrace  with  triumphant  lightness.  Her 
eyes,  utilized  as  temporary  lamps  by  a  lighting-circuit 
of  which  she  was  quite  unaware,  beamed  with  happy 
lustre.  The  lay  reader,  always  docile  to  the  necessities 
of  occasion,  murmured  delightful  trifles.  But  his 
private  thoughts  were  as  aloof  and  shining  and  evasive 
as  the  gold-fish  that  twinkled  in  the  glass  pool  over- 
head. He  picked  up  her  scarf  and  her  handkerchief 
when  she  dropped  them.  He  smiled  vaguely  when 
she  suggested  that  she  thought  she  could  persuade  Mr. 
Airedale  to  stay  in  Atlantic  City  over  the  week-end,  and 
why  worry  about  the  service  on  Sunday?  But  when 
she  and  the  yawning  Mrs.  Airedale  had  retired,  he 
hastened  to  his  chamber  and  packed  his  bag.  Stealthily 
he  went  to  the  desk  and  explained  that  he  was  leaving 

151 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

unexpectedly  on  business,  and  that  the  bill  should  go 
to  Mr.  Airedale,  whose  guest  he  had  been.  He  slipped 
away  out  of  the  side  door,  and  caught  the  late  train. 
Mrs.  Airedale  chaffed  her  daughter  that  night  for 
whining  in  her  sleep. 


152 


i 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

chapel  of  St.  Spitz  was  crowded  that  fine 
Sunday  morning,  and  the  clang  and  thud  of  its 
bells  came  merrily  through  the  thin  quick  air 
to  worshippers  arriving  in  their  luxurious  motors.  The 
amiable  oddity  of  the  lay  reader's  demeanour  as  priest 
had  added  a  zest  to  churchgoing.  The  congregation 
were  particularly  pleased,  on  this  occasion,  to  see  Gis- 
sing  appear  in  surplice  and  stole.  They  had  felt  that 
his  attire  on  the  previous  Sundays  had  been  a  little  too 
informal.  And  when,  at  the  time  usually  allotted  to 
the  sermon,  Gissing  climbed  the  pulpit  steps,  unfurled 
a  sheaf  of  manuscript,  and  gazed  solemnly  about,  they 
settled  back  into  the  pew  cushions  in  a  comfortable,  re- 
ceptive mood.  They  had  a  subconscious  feeling  that 
if  their  souls  were  to  be  saved,  it  was  better  to  have  it 
done  with  all  the  proper  formalities.  They  did  not 
notice  that  he  was  rather  pale,  and  that  his  nose  twitched 
nervously. 

153 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "in  this  beautiful  little  chapel, 
on  this  airy  hilltop,  one  might,  if  anywhere,  speak  with 
complete  honesty.  For  you  who  gather  here  for  wor- 
ship are,  in  the  main,  people  of  great  affairs;  ac- 
customed to  looking  at  life  with  high  spirit  and  with 
quick  imagination.  I  will  ask  you  then  to  be  patient 
with  me  while  I  exhort  you  to  carry  into  your  religion 
the  same  enterprising  and  ambitious  gusto  that  has 
made  your  worldly  careers  a  success.  You  are  accus- 
tomed to  deal  with  great  affairs.  Let  me  talk  to  you 
about  the  Great  Affairs  of  God/' 

Gissing  had  been  far  too  agitated  to  be  able  to  recog- 
nize any  particular  members  of  his  audience.  All  the 
faces  were  fused  into  a  common  blur.  Miss  Airedale, 
he  knew,  was  in  the  organ  loft,  but  he  had  not  seen  her 
since  his  flight  from  Atlantic  City,  for  he  had  removed 
from  the  Airedale  mansion  before  her  return,  and  had 
made  himself  a  bed  in  the  corner  of  the  vestry-room. 
He  feared  she  was  angry:  there  had  been  a  vigorous 
growling  note  in  some  of  the  bass  pipes  of  the  organ  as 
she  played  the  opening  hymn.  He  had  not  seen  a  tall 
white-haired  figure  who  came  into  the  chapel  rather 

154 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

late,  after  the  service  had  begun,  and  took  a  seat  at  the 
back.  Bishop  Borzoi  had  seized  the  opportunity  to 
drive  out  to  Dalmatian  Heights  this  morning  to  see 
how  his  protege  was  getting  on.  When  the  Bishop  saw 
his  lay  reader  appear  in  surplice  and  scarlet  hood,  he 
was  startled.  But  when  the  amateur  parson  actually 
ascended  the  pulpit,  the  Bishop's  face  was  a  study.  The 
hair  on  the  back  of  his  neck  bristled  slightly. 

"It  is  so  easy,"  Gissing  continued,  "to  let  life  go  by 
us  in  its  swift  amusing  course,  that  sometimes  it  hardly 
seems  worth  while  to  attempt  any  bold  strokes  for 
truth.  Truth,  of  course,  does  not  need  our  assistance; 
it  can  afford  to  ignore  our  errors.  But  in  this  quiet 
place,  among  the  whisper  of  the  trees,  I  seem  to  have 
heard  a  disconcerting  sound.  I  have  heard  laughter, 
and  I  think  it  is  the  laughter  of  God." 

The  congregation  stirred  a  little,  with  polite  uneasi- 
ness. This  was  not  quite  the  sort  of  thing  to  which  they 
were  accustomed. 

"Why  should  God  laugh?  I  think  it  is  because  He 
sees  that  very  often,  when  we  pretend  to  be  worshipping 
Him,  we  are  really  worshipping  and  gratifying  our- 

155 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

selves.  I  used  the  phrase  'Great  Affairs.'  The  point 
I  want  to  make  is  that  God  deals  with  far  greater  affairs 
than  we  have  realized.  We  have  imagined  Him  on  too 
petty  a  scale.  If  God  is  so  great,  we  must  approach 
Him  in  a  spirit  of  greatness.  He  is  not  interested  in 
trivialities — trivialities  of  ritual,  of  creed,  of  ceremony. 
We  have  imagined  a  vain  thing — a  God  of  our  own 
species;  merely  adding  to  the  conception,  to  gild  and 
consecrate,  a  futile  fuzbuz  of  supernaturalism.  My 
friends,  the  God  I  imagine  is  something  more 
than  a  formula  on  Sundays  and  an  oath  during 
the  week." 

Those  sitting  in  the  rear  of  the  Chapel  were  startled 
to  hear  a  low  rumbling  sound  proceeding  from  the 
diaphragm  of  the  Bishop,  who  half  rose  from  his  seat 
and  then,  by  a  great  effort  of  will,  contained  himself. 
But  Gissing,  rapt  in  his  honourable  speculations,  con- 
tinued with  growing  happiness. 

"I  ask  you,  though  probably  in  vain,  to  lay  aside  for 
the  moment  your  inherited  timidities  and  conventions. 
I  ask  you  to  lay  aside  pride,  which  is  the  devil  itself  and 
the  cause  of  most  unhappiness.  I  ask  you  to  rise  to  the 

156 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

height  of  a  great  conception.  To  'magnify'  God  is  a 
common  phrase  in  our  observances.  Then  let  us  truly 
magnify  Him — not  minify,  as  the  theologians  do.  If 
God  is  anything  more  than  a  social  fetich,  then  He 
must  be  so  much  more  that  He  includes  and  explains 
everything.  It  may  sound  inconceivable  to  you,  it 
may  sound  sacrilegious,  but  I  suggest  to  you  that  it  is 
even  possible  God  may  be  a  biped " 

The  Bishop  could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  He 
rose  with  flaming  eyes  and  stood  in  the  aisle.  Mr. 
Airedale,  Mr.  Dobermann-Pinscher,  and  several  other 
prominent  members  of  the  Church  burst  into  threaten- 
ing growls.  A  wild  bark  and  clamour  broke  from  Mr. 
Towser,  the  Sunday  School  superintendent,  and  his 
pupils,  who  sat  in  the  little  gallery  over  the  door.  And 
then,  to  Gissing's  horror  and  amazement,  Mr.  Poodle 
appeared  from  behind  a  pillar  where  he  had  been 
chafing  unseen.  In  a  fierce  tenor  voice  shaken  with 
indignation  he  cried : 

"Heretic  and  hypocrite!  Pay  no  attention  to  his 
abominable  nonsense !  He  deserted  his  family  to  lead 
a  life  of  pleasure !" 

157 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Seize  him!"  cried  the  Bishop  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

The  church  was  now  in  an  uproar.  A  shrill  yapping 
sounded  among  the  choir.  Mrs.  Airedale  swooned; 
the  Bishop's  progress  up  the  aisle  was  impeded  by  a 
number  of  ladies  hastening  for  an  exit.  Old  Mr. 
Dingo,  the  sexton,  seized  the  bell-rope  in  the  porch  and 
set  up  a  furious  pealing.  Cries  of  rage  mingled  with 
hysterical  howls  from  the  ladies.  Gissing,  trembling 
with  horror,  surveyed  the  atrocious  hubbub.  But  it  was 
high  time  to  move,  or  his  retreat  would  be  cut  off.  He 
abandoned  his  manuscript  and  bounded  down  the  pul- 
pit stairs. 

"Unfrock  him!"  yelled  Mr.  Poodle.  ; 

"He's  never  been  f rocked!"  roared  the  Bishop. 

"Impostor!"  cried  Mr.  Airedale. 

"Excommunicate  him!"  screamed  Mr.  Towser. 

"Take  him  before  the  consistory!"  shouted  Mr. 
Poodle. 

Gissing  started  toward  the  vestry  door,  but  was  de- 
layed by  the  mass  of  scuffling  choir-puppies  who  had 
seized  this  uncomprehended  diversion  as  a  chance  to 
settle  some  scores  of  their  own.  The  clamour  was 

158 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

maddening.  The  Bishop  leapt  the  chancel  rail  and 
was  about  to  seize  him  when  Miss  Airedale,  loyal  to  the 
last,  interposed.  She  flung  herself  upon  the  Bishop. 
"Run,  run !"  she  cried.  "They'll  kill  you !" 
Gissing  profited  by  this  assistance.  He  pushed  over 
the  lectern  upon  Mr.  Poodle,  who  was  clutching  at  his 
surplice.  He  checked  Mr.  Airedale  by  hurling  little 
Tommy  Bull,  one  of  the  choir,  bodily  at  him.  Tommy's 
teeth  fastened  automatically  upon  Mr.  Airedale's  ear. 
The  surplice,  which  Mr.  Poodle  was  still  holding, 
parted  with  a  rip,  and  Gissing  was  free.  With  a  yell 
of  defiance  he  tore  through  the  vestry  and  round  behind 
the  chapel. 

He  could  not  help  pausing  a  moment  to  scan  the 
amazing  scene,  which  had  been  all  Sabbath  calm  a  few 
moments  before.  From  the  long  line  of  motor  cars 
parked  outside  the  chapel  incredible  chauffeurs  were 
leaping,  hurrying  to  see  what  had  happened.  The 
shady  grove  shook  with  the  hideous  clamour  of  the 
bell,  still  wildly  tolled  by  the  frantic  sexton.  The  sud- 
den excitement  had  liberated  private  quarrels  long 
decently  repressed:  in  the  porch  Mrs.  Retriever  and 

159 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Mrs.  Dobermann-Pinscher  were  locked  in  combat. 
With  a  splintering  crash  one  of  the  choir-pups  came 
sailing  through  a  stained-glass  window,  evidently 
thrown  by  some  infuriated  adult.  He  recognized  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Towser,  raised  in  vigorous  lamentation. 
To  judge  by  the  sound  Mr.  Towser's  pupils  had  turned 
upon  him  and  were  giving  him  a  bad  time.  Above  all 
he  could  hear  the  clear  war-cry  of  Miss  Airedale  and 
the  embittered  yells  of  Mr.  Poodle.  Then  from  the 
quaking  edifice  burst  Bishop  Borzoi,  foaming  with 
wrath,  his  clothes  much  tattered,  and  followed  by 
Mr.  Poodle,  Mr.  Airedale,  and  several  others.  They 
cast  about  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  Bishop  saw 
him.  With  a  joint  halloo  they  launched  toward 
him. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  He  fled  down  the  shady 
path  between  the  trees,  but  with  a  hopeless  horror  in 
his  heart.  He  could  not  long  out-distance  such  a  run- 
ner as  the  Bishop,  whose  tremendous  strides  would 
surely  overhaul  him  in  the  end.  If  only  he  had  known 
how  to  drive  a  car,  he  might  have  commandeered  one 
of  the  long  row  waiting  by  the  gate.  But  he  was  no 

160 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

i 

motorist.  Miss  Airedale  could  have  saved  him,  in  her 
racing  roadster,  but  she  had  not  emerged  from  the 
melee  in  the  chapel.  Perhaps  the  Bishop  had  bitten 
her.  His  blood  warmed  with  anger. 

It  happened  that  they  had  been  mending  the  county 
highways,  and  a  large  steam  roller  stood  a  few  hundred 
feet  down  the  road,  drawn  up  beside  the  ditch.  Gissing 


He  heard  the  chase  go  panting  by 

knew  that  it  was  customary  to  leave  these  engines  with 
the  fire  banked  and  a  gentle  pressure  of  steam  simmer- 
ing in  the  boiler.  It  was  his  only  chance,  and  he  seized 
it.  But  to  his  dismay,  when  he  reached  the  machine, 
which  lay  just  round  the  bend  in  the  road,  he  found  it 
shrouded  with  a  huge  tarpaulin.  However,  this  sug- 
gested a  desperate  chance.  He  whipped  nimbly  in- 

161 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

side  the  covering  and  hid  in  the  coal-box.  Lying  there, 
he  heard  the  chase  go  panting  by. 

As  soon  as  he  dared,  he  climbed  out,  stripped  off  the 
canvas,  and  gazed  at  the  bulky  engine.  It  was  one  of 
those  very  tall  and  impressive  rollers  with  a  canopy  over 
the  top.  The  machinery  was  not  complicated,  and  the 
ingenuity  of  desperation  spurred  him  on.  Hurriedly 
he  opened  the  draughts  in  the  fire-box,  shook  up  the 
coals,  and  saw  the  needle  begin  to  quiver  on  the 
pressure-gauge.  He  experimented  with  one  or  two 
levers  and  handles.  The  first  one  he  touched  let  off  a 
loud  scream  from  the  whistle.  Then  he  discovered  the 
throttle.  He  opened  it  a  few  notches,  cautiously.  The 
ponderous  machine,  with  a  horrible  clanking  and 
grinding,  began  to  move  forward. 

A  steam  roller  may  seem  the  least  helpful  of  all 
vehicles  in  which  to  conduct  an  urgent  flight;  but  Gis- 
sing's  reasoning  was  sound.  In  the  first  place,  no  one 
would  expect  to  find  a  hunted  fugitive  in  this  lumber- 
ing, sluggish  behemoth  of  the  road.  Secondly,  sitting 
perched  high  up  in  the  driving  saddle,  right  under  the 
canopy,  he  was  not  easily  seen  by  the  casual  passer-by. 

162 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

And  thirdly,  if  the  pursuit  came  to  close  grips,  he  was 
still  in  a  strategic  position.  For  this,  the  most  versatile 
of  all  land-machines  except  the  military  tank,  can  move 
across  fields,  crash  through  underbrush,  and  travel  in 
a  hundred  places  that  would  stall  a  motor  car.  He 
rumbled  off  down  the  road  somewhat  exhilarated.  He 
found  the  scarlet  stole  twisted  round  his  neck,  and  tied 
it  to  one  of  the  stanchions  of  the  canopy  as  a  flag  of 
defiance. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  saw  the  posse  of  pursuit  re- 
turning along  the  road,  very  hot  and  angry.  He 
crunched  along  solemnly,  busying  himself  to  get  up  a 
strong  head  of  steam.  There  they  were,  the  Bishop, 
Mr.  Poodle,  Mr.  Airedale,  Mr.  Dobermann-Pinscher, 
and  Mr.  Towser.  Mr.  Poodle  was  talking  excitedly: 
the  Bishop's  tongue  ran  in  and  out  over  his  gleaming 
teeth.  He  was  not  saying  much,  but  his  manner  was 
full  of  deadly  wrath.  They  paid  no  attention  to  the 
roller,  and  were  about  to  pass  it  without  even  looking 
up,  when  Gissing,  in  a  sudden  fit  of  indignation,  gave 
the  wheel  a  quick  twirl  and  turned  his  clumsy  engine 
upon  them.  They  escaped  only  by  a  hair's  breadth 

163 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

from  being  flattened  out  like  pastry.  Then  the  Bishop, 
looking  up,  recognized  the  renegade.  With  a  cry  of 
anger  they  all  leaped  at  the  roller. 

But  he  was  so  high  above  them,  they  had  no  chance. 
He  seized  the  coal-scoop  and  whanged  Mr.  Poodle 
across  the  skull.  The  Bishop  came  dangerously  near 
reaching  him,  but  Gissing  released  a  jet  of  scalding 
steam  from  an  exhaust-cock,  which  gave  the  impetuous 
prelate  much  cause  for  grief.  A  lump  of  coal,  ac- 
curately thrown,  discouraged  Mr.  Airedale.  Mr. 
Towser,  attacking  on  the  other  side  of  the  engine,  man- 
aged to  scramble  up  so  high  that  he  carried  away  the 
embroidered  stole,  but  otherwise  the  fugitive  had  all 
the  best  of  it.  Mr.  Dobermann-Pinscher  burned  his 
feet  trying  to  climb  up  the  side  of  the  boiler.  From  the 
summit  of  his  uncouth  vehicle  Gissing  looked  down 
undismayed. 

"Miserable  free  thinker!"  said  Borzoi.  "You  shall 
be  tried  by  the  assembly  of  bishops." 

"In  a  mere  lay  reader,"  quoted  Gissing,  "a  slight 
laxity  is  allowable.  You  had  better  go  back  and  calm 
down  the  congregation,  or  they'll  tear  the  chapel  to 

164 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

bits.  This  kind  of  thing  will  have  a  very  bad  influence 
on  church  discipline." 

They  shouted  additional  menace,  but  Gissing  had  al- 
ready started  his  deafening  machinery  and  could  not 
hear  what  was  said.  He  left  them  bickering  by  the 
roadside. 

For  fear  of  further  pursuit,  he  turned  off  the  highway 
a  little  beyond,  and  rumbled  noisily  down  a  rustic  lane 
between  high  banks  and  hedges  where  sumac  was 
turning  red.  Strangely  enough,  there  was  something 
very  comforting  about  his  enormous  crawling  contrap- 
tion. It  was  docile  and  reliable,  like  an  elephant.  The 
crashing  clangour  of  its  movement  was  soon  forgotten 
— became,  in  fact,  an  actual  stimulus  to  thought.  For 
the  mere  pleasure  of  novelty,  he  steered  through  a 
copse,  and  took  joy  in  seeing  the  monster  thrash  its  way 
through  thickets  and  brambles,  and  then  across  a  field 
of  crackling  stubble.  Steering  toward  the  lonelier 
regions  of  that  farming  country,  presently  he  halted  in 
a  dingle  of  birches  beside  a  small  pond.  He  spent 
some  time  very  happily,  carefully  studying  the  ma- 
chinery. He  found  some  waste  and  an  oil-can  in  the 

165 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

tool-chest,  and  polished  until  the  metal  shone.  The 
water  looked  rather  low  in  the  gauge,  and  he  replen- 
ished it  from  the  pool. 

It  was  while  grooming  the  roller  that  it  struck  him 
his  own  appearance  was  unusual  for  a  highway  me- 
chanic. He  was  still  wearing  the  famous  floorwalker 
suit,  which  he  had  punctiliously  donned  every  Sunday 
for  chapel.  But  he  had  had  to  flee  without  a  hat — 
even  without  his  luggage,  which  was  neatly  packed  in 
a  bag  in  the  vestry.  That,  he  felt  sure,  Mr.  Poodle 
had  already  burst  open  for  evidences  of  heresy  and 
schism.  The  pearly  trousers  were  stained  with  oil  and 
coal-dust;  the  neat  cutaway  coat  bore  smears  of  engine- 
grease.  As  long  as  he  stuck  to  the  roller  and  the  tell- 
tale garments,  pursuit  and  identification  would  of 
course  be  easy  enough.  But  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
the  machine :  he  decided  not  to  abandon  it  yet. 

Obviously  it  was  better  to  keep  to  the  roads,  where 
the  engine  would  at  any  rate  be  less  surprisingly  con- 
spicuous, and  where  it  would  leave  no  trail.  So  he 
made  a  long  circuit  across  meadows  and  pastures,  car- 
rying a  devilish  clamour  into  the  quiet  Sunday  after- 

166 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

noon.  Regaining  a  macadam  surface,  he  set  off  at 
random,  causing  considerable  annoyance  to  the  motor- 
ing public.  Finding  that  his  cutaway  coat  caused 
jeers  and  merriment,  he  removed  it;  and  when  any  one 
showed  a  disposition  to  inquire,  he  explained  that  he 
was  doing  penance  for  an  ill-judged  wager.  His 
oscillating  perch  above  the  boiler  was  extraordinarily 
warm,  and  he  bought  a  gallon  jug  of  cider  from  a 
farmer  by  the  way.  Cheering  himself  with  this,  and 
reviewing  in  his  mind  the  queer  experiences  of  the  past 
months,  he  went  thundering  mildly  on. 

At  first  he  had  feared  a  furious  pursuit  on  the  part 
of  the  Bishop,  or  even  a  whole  college  of  bishops, 
quickly  mobilized  for  the  event.  He  had  imagined 
them  speeding  after  him  in  a  huge  motor-bus,  and  him- 
self keeping  them  at  bay  with  lumps  of  coal.  But 
gradually  he  realized  that  the  Bishop  would  not  further 
jeopardize  his  dignity,  or  run  the  risk  of  making  him- 
self ridiculous.  Mr.  Poodle  would  undoubtedly  set 
the  township  road  commissioner  on  his  trail,  and  he 
would  be  liable  to  seizure  for  the  theft  of  a  steam  roller. 
But  that  could  hardly  happen  so  quickly.  In  the  mean- 

167 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

time,  a  plan  had  been  forming  in  his  mind,  but  it  would 
require  darkness  for  its  execution. 

Darkness  did  not  delay  in  coming.  As  he  jolted 
cheerfully  from  road  to  road,  holding  up  long  strings 
of  motors  at  every  corner  while  he  jovially  held  out  his 
arm  as  a  sign  that  he  was  going  to  turn,  dark  purple 
clouds  were  massing  and  piling  up.  Foreseeing  a 
storm,  he  bought  some  provisions  at  a  roadhouse,  and 
turned  into  a  field,  where  he  camped  in  the  lee  of  a 
forest  of  birches.  He  cooked  himself  an  excellent 
supper,  toasting  bread  and  frankfurters  in  the  fire-box 
of  the  roller.  With  boiling  water  from  a  steam-cock 
he  brewed  a  panikin  of  tea;  and  sat  placidly  admiring 
the  fawn-pink  light  on  wide  pampas  of  bronze  grasses, 
tawny  as  a  panther's  hide.  A  strong  wind  began  to 
draw  from  the  southeast.  He  lit  the  lantern  at  the  rear 
of  the  machine  and  by  the  time  the  rain  came  hissing 
upon  the  hot  boiler,  he  was  ready.  Luckily  he  had 
saved  the  tarpaulin.  He  spread  this  on  the  ground 
underneath  the  roller,  and  curled  up  in  it.  The  glow 
from  the  firebox  kept  him  warm  and  dry. 

"Summer  is  over,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  heard  the 

168 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

clash  and  spouting  of  rain  all  about  him.  He  lay  for 
some  time,  not  sleepy,  thinking  theology,  and  enjoying 
the  close  tumult  of  wind  and  weather. 

People  who  have  had  an  arm  or  a  leg  amputated,  he 
reflected,  say  they  can  still  feel  pains  in  the  absent  mem- 
ber. Well,  there's  an  analogy  in  that.  Modern  skep- 
ticism has  amputated  God  from  the  heart ;  but  there  is 
still  a  twinge  where  the  arteries  were  sewn  up. 

He  slept  peacefully  until  about  two  in  the  morning, 
except  when  a  red-hot  coal,  slipping  through  the  grate- 
bars,  burned  a  lamentable  hole  in  his  trousers.  When 
he  woke,  the  night  still  dripped,  but  was  clear  aloft. 
He  started  the  engine  and  drove  cautiously,  along  back 
slippery  roads,  to  Mr.  Poodle's  house.  In  spite  of  the 
unavoidable  racket,  no  one  stirred:  he  surmised  that 
the  curate  slept  soundly  after  the  crises  of  the  day.  He 
left  the  engine  by  the  doorstep,  pinning  a  note  to  the 
steering-wheel.  It  said : 

TO  REV.  J.  ROVER  POODLE 

this  useful  steam-roller 

as  a  symbol  of  the  theological  mind 

MR.  GISSING 

169 


i 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

steamship  Pomerania,  which  had  sailed  at 
noon,  was  a  few  hours  out  of  port  on  a  calm 
gray  sea.  The  passengers,  after  the  bustle  of 
lunch  and  arranging  their  staterooms,  had  settled  into 
their  deck  chairs  and  were  telling  each  other  how  much 
they  loved  the  ocean.  Captain  Scottie  had  taken  his 
afternoon  constitutional  on  his  private  strip  of  star- 
board deck  just  aft  the  bridge,  and  was  sitting  in  his 
comfortable  cabin  expecting  a  cup  of  tea.  He  was  a 
fine  old  sea-dog:  squat,  grizzled,  severe,  with  wiry  eye- 
brows, a  short  coarse  beard,  and  watchful  quick  eyes. 
A  characteristic  Scot,  beneath  his  reticent  conscien- 
tious dignity  there  was  abundant  humour  and  affection. 
He  would  have  been  recognized  anywhere  as  a  sailor : 
those  short  solid  legs  were  perfectly  adapted  for  bal- 
ancing on  a  rolling  deck.  He  stood  by  habit  as  though 
he  were  leaning  into  a  stiff  gale.  His  mouth  always 
held  a  pipe,  which  he  smoked  in  short,  brisk  whiffs,  as 

170 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

though  expecting  to  be  interrupted  at  any  moment  by 
an  iceberg. 

The  steward  brought  in  the  tea-tray,  and  Captain 
Scottie  settled  into  his  large  armchair  to  enjoy  it.  His 
eye  glanced  automatically  at  the  barometer. 

"A  little  wind  to-night,"  he  said,  his  nose  wrinkling 
unconsciously  as  the  cover  was  lifted 
from  the  dish  of  hot  anchovy  toast. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  but 
lingered,  apparently  anxious  to  speak 
further. 

"Well,  Shepherd?" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  the  Chief 
Steward  wanted  me  to  say  they've 
found  someone  stowed  away  in  the  He  was  a  fine  old 
linen  locker,  sir.    Queer  kind  of  f el-  sea"d°Z 

low,  sir,  talks  a  bit  like  a  padre.  'E  mustVe  come 
aboard  by  the  engine-room  gangway,  sir,  and  climbed 
into  that  locker  near  the  barber  shop." 

The  problem  of  stowaways  is  familiar  enough  to 
shipmasters.  "Send  him  up  to  me,"  said  the  Captain. 

A  few  minutes  later  Gissing  appeared,  escorted  by 

171 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

a  burly  quartermaster.  Even  the  experienced  Captain 
admitted  to  himself  that  this  was  something  new  in  the 
category  of  stowaways.  Never  before  had  he  seen  one 
in  a  braided  cutaway  coat  and  wedding  trousers.  It 
was  true  that  the  garments  were  in  grievous  condition, 
but  they  were  worn  with  an  air.  The  stowaway's  face 
showed  some  embarrassment,  but  not  at  all  the  usual 
hangdog  mien  of  such  wastrels.  Involuntarily  his 
tongue  moistened  when  he  saw  the  tray  of  tea  (for  he 
had  not  eaten  since  his  supper  on  the  steam  roller  the 
night  before),  but  he  kept  his  eyes  politely  averted  from 
the  food.  They  rose  to  a  white-painted  girder  that  ran 
athwart  the  cabin  ceiling.  CERTIFIED  TO  ACCOMMODATE 
THE  MASTER  he  read  there,  in  letters  deeply  incised  into 
the  thick  paint.  "A  good  Christian  ship,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "It  sounds  like  the  Y.  M.  C.  A."  He  was 
pleased  to  think  that  his  suspicion  was  already  con- 
firmed: ships  were  more  religious  than  anything  on 
land. 

The  Captain  dismissed  the  quartermaster,  and  ad- 
dressed himself  sternly  to  the  culprit. 

"Well,  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

172 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Please,  Captain,"  said  Gissing  politely,  "do  not  al- 
low your  tea  to  get  cold.  I  can  talk  while  you  eat." 

Behind  his  grim  demeanour  the  Captain  was  very 
near  smiling  at  this  naivete.  No  Briton  is  wholly  im- 
placable at  tea-time,  and  he  felt  a  genuine  curiosity 
about  this  unusual  offender. 

"What  was  your  idea  in  coming  aboard?"  he  said. 
"Do  you  know  that  I  can  put  you  in  irons  until  we  get 
across,  and  then  have  you  sent  home  for  punishment? 
I  suppose  it's  the  old  story :  you  want  to  go  sight-seeing 
on  the  other  side?" 

"No,  Captain,"  said  Gissing.  "I  have  come  to  sea 
to  study  theology." 

In  spite  of  himself  the  Captain  was  touched  by  this 
amazing  statement.  He  was  a  Scot,  as  we  have  said. 
He  poured  a  cup  of  tea  to  conceal  his  astonishment. 

"Theology!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  theology  of  hard 
work  is  what  you  will  find  most  of  aboard  ship.  Carry 
on  and  do  your  duty;  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  all  gear 
shipshape,  salute  the  bridge  when  going  on  watch,  that 
is  the  whole  duty  of  a  good  officer.  That's  plenty 
theology  for  a  seaman."  But  the  skipper's  eye  turned 

173 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

brightly  toward  his  bookshelves,  where  he  had  several 
volumes  of  sermons,  mostly  of  a  Calvinist  sort. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  work,"  said  Gissing.  "But  I'm 
looking  for  horizons.  In  my  work  ashore  I  never 
could  find  any." 

"Your  horizon  is  likely  to  be  peeling  potatoes  in  the 
galley,"  remarked  the  Captain.  "I  understand  they  are 
short-handed  there.  Or  sweeping  out  bunks  in  the 
steerage.  Ethics  of  the  dust !  What  would  you  say  to 

that?"  •f-^.^vY/;' 

"Sir,"  replied  Gissing,  "I  shall  be  grateful  for  any 
task,  however  menial,  that  permits  me  to  meditate.  I 
understand  your  point  of  view.  By  coming  aboard 
your  ship  I  have  broken  the  law,  I  have  committed  a 
crime;  but  not  a  sin.  Crime  and  sin,  every  theologian 
admits,  are  not  co-extensive." 

The  Captain  sailed  head-on  into  argument. 

"What?"  he  cried.  "Are  you  aware  of  the  doctrine 
of  Moral  Inability  in  a  Fallen  State?  Sit  down,  sit 
down,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  We  must  discuss  this." 

He  rang  for  the  steward  and  ordered  an  extra  cup 
and  a  fresh  supply  of  toast.  At  that  moment  Gissing 

174 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

heard  two  quick  strokes  of  a  bell,  rung  somewhere  for- 
ward, a  clear,  musical,  melancholy  tone,  echoed 
promptly  in  other  parts  of  the  ship. 

"What  is  that,  Captain?"  he  asked  anxiously.  "An 
accident?" 

"Two  bells  in  the  first  dog-watch,"  said  the  Captain. 
"I  fear  you  are  as  much  a  lubber  at  sea  as  you  are  in 
theology." 

The  next  two  hours  passed  like  a  flash.  Gissing 
found  the  skipper,  in  spite  of  his  occasional  moods  of 
austerity,  a  delicious  companion.  They  discussed 
Theosophy,  Spiritualism,  and  Christian  Science,  all  of 
which  the  Captain,  with  sturdy  but  rather  troubled 
vehemence,  linked  with  Primitive  Magic.  Gissing, 
seeing  that  his  only  hope  of  establishing  himself  in  the 
sailor's  regard  was  to  disagree  and  keep  the  argument 
going,  plunged  into  psycho-analysis  and  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  unconscious.  Rather  unwarily  he  ven- 
tured to  introduce  a  nautical  illustration  into  the 
talk. 

"Your  compass  needle,"  he  said,  "points  to  the  North 
Pole,  and  although  it  has  never  been  to  the  Pole,  and 

175 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

cannot  even  conceive  of  it,  yet  it  testifies  irresistibly  to 
the  existence  of  such  a  place." 

"I  trust  you  navigate  your  soul  more  skilfully  than 
you  would  navigate  this  vessel/'  retorted  the  Captain. 
"In  the  first  place,  the  needle  does  not  point  to  the  North 
Pole  at  all,  but  to  the  magnetic  pole.  Furthermore,  it 
has  to  be  adjusted  by  magnets  to  counteract  deviation. 
Mr.  Gissing,  you  may  be  a  sincere  student  of  theology, 
but  you  have  not  allowed  for  your  own  temperamental 
deviation.  Why,  even  the  gyro  compass  has  to  be  ad- 
justed for  latitude  error.  You  landsmen  think  that  a 
ship  is  simply  a  floating  hotel.  I  should  like  to  have 
the  Bishop  you  spoke  of  study  a  little  navigation.  That 
would  put  into  him  a  healthy  respect  for  the  marvels  of 
science.  On  board  ship,  sir,  the  binnacle  is  kept  locked 
and  the  key  is  on  the  watch-chain  of  the  master.  It 
should  be  so  in  all  intellectual  matters.  Confine  them 
to  those  capable  of  understanding." 

Gissing  saw  that  the  Captain  greatly  relished  his 
sense  of  superiority,  so  he  made  a  remark  of  intentional 
simplicity. 

"The  binnacle?"  he  said.  "I  thought  that  was  the 

176 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

little  shellfish  that  clings  to  the  bottom  of  the 
boat?" 

"Don't  you  dare  call  my  ship  a  boat!"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "At  sea,  a  boat  means  only  a  lifeboat  or  some 
other  small  vagabond  craft.  Come  out  on  the  bridge 
and  I'll  show  you  a  thing  or  two." 

The  evening  had  closed  in  hazy,  and  the  Pomeranla 
swung  steadily  in  a  long  plunging  roll.  At  the  weather 
wing  of  the  bridge,  gazing  sharply  over  the  canvas 
dodger,  was  Mr.  Pointer,  the  vigilant  Chief  Officer, 
peering  off  rigidly,  as  though  mesmerized,  but  saying 
nothing.  He  gave  the  Captain  a  courteous  salute,  but 
kept  silence.  At  the  large  mahogany  wheel,  gently 
steadying  it  to  the  quarterly  roll  of  the  sea,  stood  Dane, 
a  tall,  solemn  quartermaster.  In  spite  of  a  little  un- 
easiness, due  to  the  unfamiliar  motion,  Gissing  was 
greatly  elated  by  the  wheelhouse,  which  seemed  even 
more  thrillingly  romantic  than  any  pulpit.  Uncom- 
prehendingly,  but  with  admiration,  he  examined  the 
binnacle,  the  engine-room  telegraphs,  the  telephones, 
the  rack  of  signal-flags,  the  buttons  for  closing  the  bulk- 
heads, and  the  rotating  clear-view  screen  for  lookout 

177 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

in  thick  weather.  Aloft  he  could  see  the  masthead 
light,  gently  soaring  in  slow  arcs. 

"I'll  show  you  my  particular  pride,"  said  the  Captain, 
evidently  pleased  by  his  visitor's  delighted  enthusiasm. 

Gissing  wondered  what  ingenious  device  of  science 
this  might  be. 

Captain  Scottie  stepped  to  the  weather  gunwale  of 
the  bridge.  He  pointed  to  the  smoke,  which  was  roll- 
ing rapidly  from  the  funnels. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "there's  quite  a  strong  breeze 
blowing.  But  look  here." 

He  lit  a  match  and  held  it  unshielded  above  the  can- 
vas screen  which  was  lashed  along  the  front  of  the 
bridge.  To  Gissing's  surprise  it  burned  steadily,  with- 
out blowing  out. 

"I've  invented  a  convex  wind-shield  which  splits  the 
air  just  forward  of  the  bridge.  I  can  stand  here  and 
light  my  pipe  in  the  stiffest  gale,  without  any  trouble." 

On  the  decks  below  Gissing  heard  a  bugle  blowing 
gaily,  a  bright,  persuasive  sound. 

"Six  bells,"  the  Captain  said.  "I  must  dress  for  din- 
ner. Before  I  start  you  potato-peeling,  I  should  like 

178 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

to  clear  up  that  little  discussion  of  ours  about  Free 
Will.     One  or  two  things  you  said  interested  me/' 

He  paced  the  bridge  for  a  minute,  thinking  hard. 

"I'll  test  your  sincerity,"  he  said.  "To-night  you  can 
bunk  in  the  chart-room.  I'll  have  some  dinner  sent  up 
to  you.  I  wish  you  would  write  me  an  essay  of,  say, 
two  thousand  words  on  the  subject  of  Necessity." 

For  a  moment  Gissing  pondered  whether  it  would 
not  be  better  to  be  put  in  irons  and  rationed  with  bread 
and  water.  The  wind  was  freshening,  and  the  Pomer- 
ania's  sharp  bow  slid  heavily  into  broad  hills  of  sea, 
crashing  them  into  crumbling  rollers  of  suds  which 
fell  outward  and  hissed  along  her  steep  sides.  The 
silent  Mr.  Pointer  escorted  him  into  the  chart-room,  a 
bare,  businesslike  place  with  a  large  table,  a  map- 
cabinet,  and  a  settee.  Here,  presently,  a  steward 
appeared  with  excellent  viands,  and  a  pen,  ink,  and 
note-paper.  After  a  cautious  meal,  Gissing  felt  more 
comfortable.  There  is  something  about  a  wet,  windy 
evening  at  sea  that  turns  the  mind  naturally  toward 
metaphysics.  He  pushed  away  the  dishes  and  began 
to  write. 

179 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Later  in  the  evening  the  Captain  reappeared.  He 
looked  pleased  when  he  saw  a  number  of  sheets  already 
covered  with  script. 

"Rum  lot  of  passengers  this  trip,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
seem  to  see  any  who  look  interesting.  All  Big  Busi- 
ness and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  must  say  it's  nice  to  have 
someone  who  can  talk  about  books,  and  so  on,  once  in 
awhile."  ' 

Gissing  realized  that  sometimes  a  ship-master's  life 
must  be  a  lonely  one.  The  weight  of  responsibility  is 
always  upon  him;  etiquette  prevents  his  becoming 
familiar  with  his  officers;  small  wonder  if  he  pines 
occasionally  for  a  little  congenial  talk  to  relieve  his 
mind. 

"Big  Business,  did  you  say?"  Gissing  remarked. 
"Ah,  I  could  write  you  quite  an  essay  about  that.  I 
used  to  be  General  Manager  of  Beagle  and  Company." 

"Come  into  my  cabin  and  have  a  liqueur,"  said  the 
skipper.  "Let  the  essay  go  until  to-morrow." 

The  Captain  turned  on  the  electric  stove  in  his  cabin, 
for  the  night  was  cold.  It  was  a  snug  sanctum :  at  the 
portholes  were  little  chintz  curtains ;  over  the  bunk  was 

180 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

a  convenient  reading  lamp.  On  the  wall  a  brass  pen- 
dulum swung  slowly,  registering  the  roll  of  the  ship. 
The  ruddy  shine  of  the  stove  lit  up  the  orderly  desk  and 
the  photographs  of  the  Captain's  family. 

"Yours?"  said  Gissing,  looking  at  a  group  of  three 
puppies  with  droll  Scottish  faces. 

"Aye,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Fve  three  of  my  own,"  said  Gissing,  with  a  private 
pang  of  homesickness.  The  skipper's  cosy  quarters 
were  the  most  truly  domestic  he  had  seen  since  the  eve- 
ning he  first  fled  from  responsibility. 

Captain  Scottie  was  surprised.  Certainly  this  ec- 
centric stranger  in  the  badly  damaged  wedding  gar- 
ments had  not  given  the  impression  of  a  family  head. 
Just  then  the  steward  entered  with  a  decanter  of  ben- 
edictine  and  small  glasses. 

"Braw  days  and  bonny !"  said  the  Captain,  raising  his 
crystal. 

"Secure  amidst  perils!"  replied  Gissing  courteously. 
It  was  the  phrase  engraved  upon  the  ship's  notepaper, 
on  which  he  had  been  writing,  and  it  had  impressed 
itself  on  his  mind. 

181 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"You  said  you  had  been  a  General  Manager." 

Gissing  told,  with  some  vivacity,  of  his  experiences 
in  the  world  of  trade.  The  Captain  poured  another 
small  liqueur. 

"They're  fine  halesome  liquor,"  he  said. 

"Sincerely  yours,"  said  Gissing,  nodding  over  the 
glass.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  at  home  in  the 
navigating  quarters  of  the  ship,  and  hoped  the  potato- 
peeling  might  be  postponed  as  long  as  possible. 

"How  far  had  you  got  in  your  essay?"  asked  the 
Captain. 

"Not  very  far,  I  fear.  I  was  beginning  by  laying 
down  a  few  psychological  fundamentals." 

"Excellent!    Will  you  read  it  to  me?" 

Gissing  went  to  get  his  manuscript,  and  read  it  aloud. 
The  Captain  listened  attentively,  puffing  clouds  of 
smoke. 

"I  am  sorry  this  is  such  a  short  voyage,"  he  said  when 
Gissing  finished.  "You  have  approached  the  matter 
from  an  entirely  nai'f  and  instinctive  standpoint,  and 
it  will  take  some  time  to  show  you  your  errors.  Before 
I  demolish  your  arguments  I  should  like  to  turn  them 

182 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

over  in  my  mind.  I  will  reduce  my  ideas  to  writing 
and  then  read  them  to  you." 

"I  should  like  nothing  better,"  said  Gissing.  "And 
I  can  think  over  the  subject  more  carefully  while  I  peel 
the  potatoes." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Captain.  "I  do  not  often  get 
a  chance  to  discuss  theology.  I  will  tell  you  my  idea. 
You  spoke  of  your  experience  as  General  Manager, 
when  you  had  charge  of  a  thousand  employees.  One 
of  the  things  we  need  on  this  ship  is  a  staff-captain,  to 
take  over  the  management  of  the  personnel.  That 
would  permit  me  to  concentrate  entirely  on  navigation. 
In  a  vessel  of  this  size  it  is  wrong  that  the  master  should 
have  to  carry  the  entire  responsibility." 

He  rang  for  the  steward. 

"My  compliments  to  Mr.  Pointer,  and  tell  him  to 
come  here." 

Mr.  Pointer  appeared  shortly  in  oilskins,  saluted  and 
gazed  fixedly  at  his  superior,  with  one  foot  raised  upon 
the  brass  door-sill. 

"Mr.  Pointer,"  said  Captain  Scottie,  "I  have  ap- 
pointed Captain  Gissing  staff-captain.  Take  orders 

183 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

from  him  as  you  would  from  me.  He  will  have  com- 
plete charge  of  the  ship's  discipline." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pointer,  stood  a  moment  in- 
tently to  see  if  there  were  further  orders,  saluted  again, 
and  withdrew. 

"Now  you  had  better  turn  in,"  said  the  skipper.  "Of 
course  you  must  wear  uniform.  I'll  send  the  tailor  up 
to  you  at  once.  He  can  remodel  one  of  my  suits  over- 
night. The  trousers  will  have  to  be  lengthened." 

On  the  chart-room  sofa,  Gissing  dozed  and  waked 
and  dozed  again.  On  the  bridge  near  by  he  heard  the 
steady  tread  of  feet,  the  mysterious  words  of  the  officer 
on  watch  passing  the  course  to  his  relief.  Bells  rang 
with  sharp  double  clang.  Through  the  open  port  he 
could  hear  the  alternate  boom  and  hiss  of  the  sea  under 
the  bows.  With  the  stately  lift  and  lean  of  the  ship 
there  mingled  a  faint  driving  vibration. 


184 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 


\HE  first  morning  in  any  new  environment  is 
always  the  most  exciting.  Gissing  was  already 
awake,  and  watching  the  novel  sight  of  a  patch 
of  sunshine  sliding  to  and  fro  on  the  deck  of  the  chart- 
room,  when  there  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door.  The 
Captain's  steward  entered,  carrying  a  handsome  uni- 
form. 

"Six  bells,  sir/'  he  said.  "Your  bath  is  laid  on." 
Gissing  was  not  very  sure  just  what  time  it  was,  but 
the  steward  held  out  a  dressing  gown  for  him  to  slip 
on,  so  he  took  the  hint,  and  followed  him  to  the  Cap- 
tain's private  bathroom  where  he  plunged  gaily  into 
warm  salt  water.  He  was  hardly  dressed  before  break- 
fast was  laid  for  him  in  the  chart-room.  It  was  a  break- 
fast greatly  to  his  liking — porridge,  scrambled  eggs, 
grilled  kidneys  and  bacon,  coffee,  toast,  and  marmalade. 
Evidently  the  hardships  of  sea  life  had  been  greatly  ex- 
aggerated by  fiction  writers. 

185 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

He  was  a  trifle  bashful  about  appearing  on  the  bridge 
in  his  blue  and  brass  formality,  and  waited  a  while 
thinking  Captain  Scottie  might  come.  But  no  one  dis- 
turbed him,  so  by  and  bye  he  went  out.  It  was  a  brisk 

morning  with  a  fresh  breeze  and 
plenty  of  whitecaps.  Dancing 
rainbows  hovered  about  the  bow 
when  an  occasional  explosion  of 
spray  burst  up  into  the  sunlight. 
Mr.  Pointer  was  on  the  bridge,  still 
gazing  steadily  into  the  distance. 
He  saluted  Gissing,  but  said  noth- 
ing.  The  quartermaster  at  the 

wheel  also  saluted  in  silence.    A 
Mr.    Pointer   was  .    .          ,  , 

on  the  bridge,  gazing    seaman    wlPm£   down    the    Pamt' 
steadily  into  the  dis-    work  on   the   deckhouse   saluted. 

Gissing  returned  these  gestures 
punctiliously,  and  began  to  pace  the  bridge  from  side 
to  side.  He  soon  grew  accustomed  to  the  varying  slant 
of  the  deck,  and  felt  that  his  footing  showed  a  nautical 
assurance. 

Now  for  the  first  time  he  enjoyed  an  untrammelled 

186 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

horizon  on  all  sides.  The  sea,  he  observed,  was  not 
really  blue — not  at  any  rate  the  blue  he  had  supposed. 
Where  it  seethed  flatly  along  the  hull,  laced  with  swirls 
of  milky  foam,  it  was  almost  black.  Farther  away,  it 
was  green,  or  darkly  violet.  A  ladder  led  to  the  top  of 
the  charthouse,  and  from  this  commanding  height  the 
whole  body  of  the  ship  lay  below  him.  How  alive  she 
seemed,  how  full  of  personality !  The  strong  funnels, 
the  tall  masts  that  moved  so  delicately  against  the  pale 
open  sky,  the  distant  stern  that  now  dipped  low  in  a 
comfortable  hollow,  and  now  soared  and  threshed  on- 
ward with  a  swimming  thrust,  the  whole  vital  organism 
spoke  to  the  eye  and  the  imagination.  In  the  centre 
of  this  vast  circle  she  moved,  royal  and  serene.  She 
was  more  beautiful  than  the  element  she  rode  on,  for 
perhaps  there  was  something  meaningless  in  that  pure 
vacant  round  of  sea  and  sky.  Once  its  immense  azure 
was  grasped  and  noted,  it  brought  nothing  to  the  mind. 
Reason  was  indignant  to  conceive  it,  sloping  endlessly 
away. 

The  placid,  beautifully  planned  routine  of  shipboard 
passed  on  its  accustomed  course,  and  he  began  to  sus- 

187 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

pect  that  his  staff-captaincy  was  a  sinecure.  Down  be- 
low he  could  see  the  passengers  briskly  promenading, 
or  drowsing  under  their  rugs.  On  the  hurricane  deck, 
aft,  a  sailor  was  chalking  a  shuffleboard  court.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  all  this  might  become  monotonous 
unless  he  found  some  actual  part  in  it.  Just  then  Cap- 
tain Scottie  appeared  on  the  bridge,  took  a  quick  look 
around,  and  joined  him  on  top  of  the  charthouse. 

"Good  morning!"  he  said.  "You  won't  think  me 
rude  if  you  don't  see  much  of  me?  Thinking  about 
those  ideas  of  yours,  I  have  come  upon  some  rather 
puzzling  stuff.  I  must  work  the  whole  thing  out  more 
clearly.  Your  suggestion  that  Conscience  points  the 
way  to  an  integration  of  personality  into  a  higher  type 
of  divinity,  seems  to  me  off  the  track ;  but  I  haven't  quite 
downed  it  yet.  I'm  going  to  shut  myself  up  to-day  and 
consider  the  matter.  I  leave  you  in  charge." 

"I  shall  be  perfectly  happy,"  said  Gissing.  "Please 
don't  worry  about  me." 

"You  suggest  that  all  the  conditions  of  life  at  sea,  our 
mastery  of  the  forces  of  Nature,  and  so  on,  seem  to  show 
that  we  have  perfect  freedom  of  will,  and  adapt  every- 

188 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

thing  to  our  desires.  I  believe  just  the  contrary.  The 
forces  of  Nature  compel  us  to  approach  them  in  their 
own  way,  otherwise  we  are  shipwrecked.  It  is  in  the 
conditions  of  Nature  that  this  ship  should  reach  port 
in  eight  days,  otherwise  we  should  get  nowhere.  We 
do  it  because  it  is  our  destiny." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Gissing.  But  the 
Captain  had  already  departed  with  a  clouded  brow. 

On  the  chart-room  roof  Gissing  had  discovered  an 
alluring  instrument,  the  exact  use  of  which  he  did  not 
know.  It  seemed  to  be  some  kind  of  steering  control. 
The  dial  was  lettered,  from  left  to  right,  as  follows : — 

HARD  A  PORT,  PORT,  STEADY,  COURSE,  STEADY,  STARBD, 

HARD  A  STARBD.  At  present  the  handle  stood  upon  the 
section  marked  COURSE.  After  a  careful  study  of  the 
whole  seascape,  it  seemed  to  Gissing  that  off  to  the  south 
the  ocean  looked  more  blue  and  more  interesting. 
After  some  hesitation  he  moved  the  handle  to  the  PORT 
mark,  and  waited  to  see  what  would  happen.  To  his 
delight  he  saw  the  bow  swing  slowly  round,  and  the 
Pomeranias  gleaming  wake  spread  behind  her  in  a 
whitened  curve.  He  descended  to  the  bridge,  a  little 

189 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

nervous  as  to  what  Mr.  Pointer  might  say,  but  found 
the  Mate  gazing  across  the  water  with  the  same  fierce 
and  unwearying  attention. 

"I  have  changed  the  course,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Pointer  saluted,  but  said  nothing. 

Having  succeeded  so  far,  Gissing  ventured  upon  an- 
other innovation.  He  had  been  greatly  tempted  by  the 
wheel,  and  envied  the  stolid  quartermaster  who  was 
steering.  So,  assuming  an  air  of  calm  certainty,  he 
entered  the  wheelhouse. 

"I'll  take  her  for  a  while,"  he  said. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  said  the  quartermaster,  and  surren- 
dered the  wheel  to  him. 

"You  might  string  out  a  few  flags,"  Gissing  said. 
He  had  been  noticing  the  bright  signal  buntings  in  the 
rack,  and  thought  it  a  pity  not  to  use  them. 

"I  like  to  see  a  ship  well  dressed,"  he  added. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  said  Dane.     "Any  choice,  sir?" 

Gissing  picked  out  a  string  of  flags  which  were  par- 
ticularly lively  in  colour-scheme,  and  had  them  hoisted. 
Then  he  gave  his  attention  to  the  wheel.  He  found  it 
quite  an  art,  and  was  surprised  to  learn  that  a  big  ship 

190 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

requires  so  much  helm.  But  it  was  very  pleasant.  He 
took  care  to  steer  toward  patches  of  sea  that  looked  in- 
teresting, and  to  cut  into  any  particular  waves  that  took 
his  fancy.  After  an  hour  or  so,  he  sighted  a  fishing 
schooner,  and  gave  chase.  He  found  it  so  much  fun 
to  run  close  beside  her  (taking  care  to  pass  to  leeward, 
so  as  not  to  cut  off  her  wind)  that  a  mile  farther  on  he 
turned  and  steered  a  neat  circle  about  the  bewildered 
craft.  The  Pomeranias  passengers  were  greatly  inter- 
ested, and  lined  the  rails  trying  to  make  out  what  the 
fishermen  were  shouting.  The  captain  of  the  schooner 
seemed  particularly  agitated,  kept  waving  at  the  signal 
flags  and  barking  through  a  megaphone.  During 
these  manoeuvres  Mr.  Pointer  gazed  so  hard  at  the 
horizon  that  Gissing  felt  a  bit  embarrassed. 

"I  thought  it  wise  to  find  out  exactly  what  our  turn- 
ing-circle is,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Pointer  saluted.     He  was  a  well-trained  officer. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  Captain  reappeared,  look- 
ing more  cheerful.  Gissing  was  still  at  the  helm, 
which  he  found  so  fascinating  he  would  not  relinquish 
it.  He  had  ordered  his  tea  served  on  a  little  stand 

191 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

beside  the  wheel  so  that  he  could  drink  it  while  he 
steered. 

"Hullo!"  said  the  Captain.  "I  see  you've  changed 
the  course." 

"It  seemed  best  to  do  so,"  said  Gissing  firmly.  He 
felt  that  to  show  any  weakness  at  this  point  would  be 
fatal. 

"Oh,  well,  probably  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  coming 
round  to  some  of  your  ideas." 

Gissing  saw  that  this  would  never  do.  Unless  he 
could  keep  the  master  disturbed  by  philosophic  doubts, 
Scottie  would  expect  to  resume  command  of  the  ship. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I've  been  thinking  about  it,  too. 
I  believe  I  went  a  bit  too  far.  But  what  do  you  think 
about  this?  Do  you  believe  that  Conscience  is  inher- 
ited or  acquired?  You  see  how  important  that  is.  If 
Conscience  is  a  kind  of  automatic  oracle,  infallible  and 
perfect,  what  becomes  of  free  will?  And  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  Conscience  is  only  a  laboriously  trained 
perception  of  moral  and  social  utilities,  where  does 
your  deity  come  in?" 

Gissing  was  aware  that  this  dilemma  would  not  hold 

192 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

water  very  long,  and  was  painfully  impromptu ;  but  it 
hit  the  Captain  amidships. 

"By  Jove/'  he  said,  "that's  terrible,  isn't  it?  It's  no 
use  trying  to  carry  on  until  I've  got  that  under  the 
hatch.  Look  here,  would  you  mind,  just  as  a  favour, 
keep  things  going  while  I  wrestle  with  that  question? 
— I  know  it's  asking  a  lot,  but  perhaps " 

"It's  quite  all  right,"  Gissing  replied.  "Naturally 
you  want  to  work  these  things  out." 

The  Captain  started  to  leave  the  bridge,  but  by  old 
seafaring  habit  he  cast  a  keen  glance  at  the  sky.  He 
saw  the  bright  string  of  code  flags  fluttering.  He 
seemed  startled. 

"Are  you  signalling  any  one?"  he  asked. 

"No  one  in  particular.  I  thought  it  looked  better 
to  have  a  few  flags  about." 

"I  daresay  you're  right.  But  better  take  them 
down  if  you  speak  a  ship.  They're  rather  con- 
fusing." 

"Confusing?  I  thought  they  were  just  to  brighten 
things  up." 

"You  have  two  different  signals  up.  They  read, 

193 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Bubonic  plague,  give  me  a  wide  berth.  Am  coming 
to  your  assistance" 

Toward  dinner  time,  when  Gissing  had  left  the  wheel 
and  was  humming  a  tune  as  he  walked  the  bridge,  the 
steward  came  to  him. 

"The  Captain's  compliments,  sir,  and  would  you 
take  his  place  in  the  saloon  to-night?  He  says 
he's  very  busy  writing,  sir,  and  would  take  it  as  a 
favour." 

Gissing  was  always  obliging.  There  was  just  a  hint 
of  conscious  sternness  in  his  manner  as  he  entered  the 
Pomeranias  beautiful  dining  saloon,  for  he  wished  the 
passengers  to  realize  that  their  lives  depended  upon  his 
prudence  and  sea-lore.  Twice  during  the  meal  he  in- 
structed the  steward  to  bring  him  the  latest  barometer 
reading;  and  after  the  dessert  he  scribbled  a  note  on  the 
back  of  a  menu-card  and  had  it  sent  to  the  Chief  En- 
gineer. It  said: — 

Dear  Chief:  Please  keep  up  a  good  head  of  steam  to-night. 
I  am  expecting  dirty  weather. 

MR.  GISSING, 
(Staff-Captain) 

194 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

What  the  Chief  said  when  he  received  the  message 
is  not  included  in  the  story. 

But  the  same  social  aplomb  that  had  made  Gissing 
successful  as  a  floorwalker  now  came  to  his  rescue  as 
mariner.  The  passengers  at  the  Captain's  table  were 
amazed  at  his  genial  charm.  His  anecdotes  of  sea  life 
were  heartily  applauded.  After  dinner  he  circulated 
gracefully  in  the  ladies'  lounge,  and  took  coffee  there 
surrounded  by  a  chattering  bevy.  He  organized  a 
little  impromptu  concert  in  the  music  room,  and  when 
that  was  well  started,  slipped  away  to  the  smoke-room. 
Here  he  found  a  pool  being  organized  as  to  the  exact 
day  and  hour  when  the  Pomerania  would  reach  port. 
Appealed  to  for  his  opinion,  he  advised  caution.  On 
all  sides  he  was  in  demand,  for  dancing,  for  bridge,  for 
a  recitation.  At  length  he  slipped  away,  pleading  that 
he  must  keep  himself  fit  in  case  of  fog.  The  passengers 
were  loud  in  his  praise,  asserting  that  they  had  never 
met  so  agreeable  a  sea-captain.  One  elderly  lady  said 
she  remembered  crossing  with  him  in  the  old  Caninia, 
years  ago,  and  that  he  was  just  the  same  then. 


195 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

AD  SO  the  voyage  went  on.  Gissing  was  quite 
content  to  do  a  two-hour  trick  at  the  wheel 
both  morning  and  afternoon,  and  worked  out 
some  new  principles  of  steering  which  gave  him  pleas- 
ure. In  the  first  place,  he  noticed  that  the  shuffle-board 
and  quoit  players,  on  the  boat  deck  aft,  were  occasion- 
ally annoyed  by  cinders  from  the  stacks,  so  he  made  it 
a  general  plan  to  steer  so  that  the  smoke  blew  at  right 
angles  to  the  ship's  course.  As  the  wind  was  prevail- 
ingly west,  this  meant  that  his  general  trend  was  south- 
erly.  Whenever  he  saw  another  vessel,  a  mass  of  float-* 
ing  sea-weed,  a  porpoise,  or  even  a  sea-gull,  he  steered 
directly  for  it,  and  passed  as  close  as  possible,  to  have 
a  good  look  at  it.  Even  Mr.  Pointer  admitted  (in  the 
mates'  mess)  that  he  had  never  experienced  so  eventful 
a  voyage.  To  keep  the  quartermasters  from  being 
idle,  Gissing  had  them  knit  him  a  rope  hammock  to  be 

196 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

slung  in  the  chart-room.     He  felt  that  this  would  be 
more  nautical  than  a  plush  settee. 

There  was  a  marvellous  sense  of  power  in  standing 
at  the  wheel  and  feeling  the  great  hull  reply  to  his 
touch.  Occasionally  Captain  Scottie  would  emerge 
from  his  cabin,  look  round  with  a  faint  surprise,  and 
come  to  the  bridge  to  see  what  was  happening.  Mr. 
Pointer  would  salute  mutely,  and  continue  to  study 
the  skyline  with  indignant  absorption.  The  Captain 
would  approach  the  wheel,  where  Gissing  was  deep  in 
thought.  Rubbing  his  hands,  the  Captain  would  say 
heartily,  "Well,  I  think  I've  got  it  all  clear  now." 

Gissing  sighed. 

"What  is  it?"  the  Captain  inquired  anxiously. 

"I'm  bothered  about  the  subconscious.  They  tell  us 
nowadays  that  it's  the  subconscious  mind  that  is  really 
important.  The  more  mental  operations  we  can  turn 
over  to  the  subconscious  realm,  the  happier  we  will  be, 
and  the  more  efficient.  Morality,  theology,  and  every- 
thing really  worth  while,  as  I  understand  it,  spring 
from  the  subconscious." 

The  Captain's  look  of  cheer  would  vanish. 

197 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Maybe  there's  something  in  that." 

"If  so,"  Gissing  continued,  "then  perhaps  conscious- 
ness is  entirely  spurious.  It  seems  to  me  that  before  we 
can  get  anywhere  at  all,  we've  got  to  draw  the  line  be- 
tween the  conscious  and  the  subconscious.  What 
bothers  me  is,  am  I  conscious  of  having  a  subconscious 
or  not?  Sometimes  I  think  I  am,  and  then  again  I'm 
doubtful.  But  if  I'm  aware  of  my  subconscious,  then 
it  isn't  a  genuine  subconscious,  and  the  whole  thing's 
just  another  delusion " 

The  Captain  would  knit  his  weather-beaten  brow  and 
again  retire  anxiously  to  his  quarters,  after  begging 
Gissing  to  be  generous  and  carry  on  a  while  longer. 
Occasionally,  pacing  the  starboard  bridge-deck,  sacred 
to  captains,  Gissing  would  glance  through  the  port  and 
see  the  metaphysical  commander  bent  over  sheets  of 
foolscap  and  thickly  wreathed  in  pipe-smoke. 

He  himself  had  fallen  into  a  kind  of  tranced  felicity, 
in  which  these  questions  no  longer  had  other  than  an 
ingenious  interest.  His  heart  was  drowned  in  the  en- 
gulfing blue.  As  they  made  their  southing,  wind  and 
weather  seemed  to  fall  astern,  the  sun  poured  with  a 

198 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

more  golden  candour.  He  stood  at  the  wheel  in  a  tran- 
quil reverie,  blithely  steering  toward  some  bright  belly 
of  cloud  that  had  caught  his  fancy.  Mr.  Pointer  shook 
his  head  when  he  glanced  surreptitiously  at  the  steer- 
ing recorder,  a  device  that  noted  graphically  every 
movement  of  the  rudder  with  a  view  to  promoting  eco- 
nomical helmsmanship.  Indeed  Gissing's  course,  as 
logged  on  the  chart,  surprised  even  himself,  so  that  he 
forbade  the  officers  taking  their  noon  observations. 
When  Mr.  Pointer  said  something  about  isobars,  the 
staff-captain  replied  serenely  that  he  did  not  expect  to 
find  any  polar  bears  in  these  latitudes. 

He  had  hoped  privately  for  an  occasional  pirate,  and 
scanned  the  sea-rim  sharply  for  suspicious  topsails. 
But  the  ocean,  as  he  remarked,  is  not  crowded.  They 
proceeded,  day  after  day,  in  a  solitary  wideness  of  un- 
blemished colour.  The  ship,  travelling  always  in  the 
centre  of  this  infinite  disk,  seemed  strangely  identified 
with  his  own  itinerant  spirit,  watchful  at  the  gist  of 
things,  alert  at  the  point  which  was  necessarily,  for  him, 
the  nub  of  all  existence.  He  wandered  about  the  Pom- 
crania's  sagely  ordered  passages  and  found  her  more 

199 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

and  more  magical.  She  went  on  and  on,  with  some" 
strange  urgent  vitality  of  her  own.  Through  the  fid- 
dleys  on  the  boat  deck  came  a  hot  oily  breath  and  the 
steady  drumming  of  her  burning  heart.  From  oxter 
to  hawse-hole,  from  shaft-tunnel  to  crow's-nest,  he  ex- 
plored and  loved  her.  In  the  whole  of  her  proud,  faith- 
ful, obedient  fabric  he  divined  honour  and  exultation. 
Poised  upon  uncertainty,  she  was  sure.  The  camber 
of  her  white-scrubbed  decks,  the  long,  clean  sheer  of 
her  hull,  the  concave  flare  of  her  bows — what  was  the 
amazing  joy  and  Tightness  of  these  things?  And  yet 
the  grotesque  passengers  regarded  her  only  as  a  vehicle, 
to  carry  them  sedatively  to  some  clamouring  dock. 
Fools !  She  was  more  lovely  than  anything  they  would 
ever  see  again !  He  yearned  to  drive  her  endlessly  to- 
ward that  unreachable  perimeter  of  sky. 

On  land  there  had  been  definite  horizons,  even  if  dis- 
appointing when  reached  and  examined;  but  here  there 
was  no  horizon  at  all.  Every  hour  it  slid  and  slid  over 
the  dark  orb  of  sea.  He  lost  count  of  time.  The  trem- 
ulous cradling  of  the  Pomerania,  steadily  climbing 
long  leagues;  her  noble  forecastle  solemnly  lifting 

200 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

against  heaven,  then  descending  with  grave  beauty  into 
a  spread  of  foaming  beryl  and  snowdrift,  seemed  one 
with  the  rhythm  of  his  pulse  and  heart.  Perhaps  there 
had  been  more  than  mere  ingenuity  in  his  last  riddle 
for  the  theological  skipper.  Truly  the  subconscious 
had  usurped  him.  Here  he  was  almost  happy,  for  he 
was  almost  unaware  of  life.  It  was  all  blue  vacancy 
and  suspension.  The  sea  is  the  great  answer  and  con- 
soler, for  it  means  either  nothing  or  everything,  and  so 
need  not  tease  the  brain. 

But  the  passengers,  though  unobservant,  began  to 
murmur;  especially  those  who  had  wagered  that  the 
Pomerania  would  dock  on  the  eighth  day.  The  world 
itself,  they  complained,  was  created  in  seven  days,  and 
why  should  so  fine  a  ship  take  longer  to  cross  a  com- 
paratively small  ocean?  Urbanely,  over  coffee  and 
petits  fours,  Gissing  argued  with  them.  They  were 
well  on  their  way,  he  protested;  and  then,  as  a  hypo- 
thetical case,  he  asked  why  one  destination  was  more 
worth  visiting  than  another?  He  even  quoted  Shake- 
speare on  this  point — something  about  "ports  and 
happy  havens" — and  succeeded  in  turning  the  tide  of 

201 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

conversation  for  a  while.  The  mention  of  Shakespeare 
suggested  to  some  of  the  ladies  that  it  would  be  pleas- 
ant, now  they  all  knew  each  other  so  well,  to  put  on 
some  amateur  theatricals.  They  compromised  by  play- 
ing charades  in  the  saloon.  Another  evening  Gissing 
kept  them  amused  by  fireworks,  which  were  very  lovely 
against  the  dark  sky.  For  this  purpose  he  used  the 
emergency  rockets,  star-shells  and  coloured  flares, 
much  to  the  distress  of  Dane,  the  quartermaster,  who 
had  charge  of  these  supplies. 

Little  by  little,  however,  the  querulous  protests  of  the 
passengers  began  to  weary  him.  Also,  he  had  been  re- 
ceiving terse  memoranda  from  the  Chief  Engineer  that 
the  coal  was  getting  low  in  the  bunkers  and  that  some- 
thing must  be  queer  in  the  navigating  department. 
This  seemed  very  unreasonable.  The  fixed  gaze  of  Mr. 
Pointer,  perpetually  examining  the  horizon  as  though 
he  wanted  to  make  sure  he  would  recognize  it  if  they 
met  again,  was  trying.  Even  Captain  Scottie  com- 
plained one  day  that  the  supply  of  fresh  meat  had  given 
out  and  that  the  steward  had  been  bringing  him  tinned 
beef.  Gissing  determined  upon  resolute  measures. 

202 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

He  had  notice  served  that  on  account  of  possible 
danger  from  pirates  there  would  be  a  general  boat  drill 
on  the  following  day — not  merely  for  the  crew,  but  for 
everyone.  He  gave  a  little  talk  about  it  in  the  saloon 
after  dinner,  and  worked  his  audience  up  to  quite  a 
pitch  of  enthusiasm.  This  would  be  better  than  any 
amateur  theatricals,  he  insisted.  Everyone  was  to  act 
exactly  as  though  in  a  sudden  calamity.  They  might 
make  up  the  boat-parties  on  the  basis  of  congeniality  if 
they  wished ;  five  minutes  would  be  given  for  reaching 
the  stations,  without  panic  or  disorder.  They  should 
prepare  themselves  as  though  they  were  actually  going 
to  leave  a  sinking  ship. 

The  passengers  were  delighted  with  the  idea  of  this 
novel  entertainment.  Every  soul  on  board — with  the 
exception  of  Captain  Scottie,  who  had  locked  himself  in 
and  refused  to  be  disturbed — was  properly  advertised 
of  the  event. 

The  following  day,  fortunately,  was  clear  and  calm. 
At  noon  Gissing  blew  the  syren,  fired  a  rocket  from  the 
bridge,  and  swung  the  engine  telegraph  to  STOP.  The 
ship's  orchestra,  by  his  orders,  struck  up  a  rollicking 

203 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

air.  Quickly  and  without  confusion,  amid  cries  of 
Women  and  children  first!  the  passengers  filed  to  their 
allotted  places.  The  crew  and  officers  were  all  at  their 
stations. 

Gissing  knocked  at  Captain  Scottie's  cabin. 

"We  are  taking  to  the  boats,"  he  said. 

"Goad!"  cried  the  skipper.  "Wull  it  be  a  collee- 
sion?" /:  i 

"All's  clear  and  the  davits  are  outboard,"  said  Gis- 
sing. He  had  been  studying  the  manual  of  boat  handl- 
ing in  one  of  the  nautical  volumes  in  the  chart-room. 

"Auld  Hornie!"  ejaculated  the  skipper.  "Well  no 
can  salve  the  specie !  Make  note  of  her  poseetion,  Mr. 
Gissing!"  He  hastened  to  gather  his  papers,  the  log, 
a  chronometer,  and  a  large  canister  of  tobacco. 

"The  Deil's  intil't,"  he  said  as  he  hastened  to  his  boat. 
"I  had  yon  pragmateesm  of  yours  on  a  lee  shore.  Two- 
three  hours,  I'd  have  careened  ye." 

Gissing  was  ready  with  his  megaphone.  From  the 
wing  of  the  bridge  he  gave  the  orders. 

"Lower  away!"  and  the  boats  dropped  to  the  pas- 
senger rail. 

204 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"Avast  lowering!"  Each  boat  took  in  her  roster  of 
passengers,  who  were  in  high  spirits  at  this  unusual  ex- 
citement. 

"Mind  your  painters!     Lower  handsomely!" 

The  boats  took  the  water  in  orderly  fashion,  and  were 
cast  off.  Remaining  members  of  the  crew  swarmed 
down  the  falls.  The  bandsmen  had  a  boat  to  them- 
selves, and  resumed  their  tune  as  soon  as  they  were 
settled. 

Gissing,  left  alone  on  the  ship,  waved  for  silence. 

"Look  sharp,  man!"  cried  Captain  Scottie.  "Hon- 
our's satisfied!  Take  your  place  in  the  boat!" 

The  passengers  applauded,  and  there  was  quite  a 
clatter  of  camera  shutters  as  they  snapped  the  Pom- 
erania  looming  grandly  above  them. 

"Boats  are  all  provisioned  and  equipped,"  shouted 
Gissing.  "I've  broadcasted  your  position  by  radio. 
The  barometer's  at  Fixed  Fair.  Pull  off  now,  and 
'ware  the  screw." 

He  moved  the  telegraph  handle  to  DEAD  SLOW  and 
the  Pomerania  began  to  slip  forward  gently.  The 
boats  dropped  aft  amid  a  loud  miscellaneous  outcry. 

205 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Mr.  Pointer  was  already  examining  the  horizon.  Cap- 
tain Scottie,  awakened  to  the  situation,  was  uttering  the 
language  of  theology  but  not  the  purport. 

"Don't  stand  up  in  the  boats,"  megaphoned  Gissing. 
"You're  quite  all  right,  there's  a  ship  on  the  way  al- 
ready. I  wirelessed  last  night." 

He  slid  the  telegraph  to  SLOW,  HALF,  and  then  FULL. 
Once  more  the  ship  creamed  through  the  lifting  purple 
swells.  The  little  flock  of  boats  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

Alone  at  the  wheel,  he  realized  that  a  great  weight 
was  off  his  mind.  The  responsibility  of  his  position 
had  burdened  him  more  than  he  knew.  Now  a  strange 
eagerness  and  joy  possessed  him.  His  bubbling  wake 
cut  straight  and  milky  across  the  glittering  afternoon. 
In  a  ruddy  sunset  glow,  the  sea  darkened  through  all 
tints  of  violet,  amethyst,  indigo.  The  horizon  line 
sharpened  so  clearly  that  he  could  distinguish  the  toss- 
ing profile  of  waves  wetting  the  sky.  "A  red  sky  at 
night  is  the  sailor's  delight,"  he  said  to  himself.  He 
switched  on  the  port  and  starboard  lights  and  the  mast- 
head lanterns,  then  lashed  the  wheel  while  he  went  be- 
low for  supper.  He  did  not  know  exactly  where  he  was, 

206 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

for  he  seemed  to  have  steamed  clean  off  the  chart;  but  as 
he  conned  the  helm  that  evening,  and  leaned  over  the 
lighted  binnacle,  he  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  not  far 
from  some  destiny.  With  cheerful  assurance  he  lashed 
the  wheel  again,  and  turned  in.  He  woke  once  in  the 
night,  and  leaped  from  the  hammock  with  a  start.  He 
thought  he  had  heard  a  sound  of  barking. 


207 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

THE  next  morning  he  sighted  land.    Coming 
out  on  the  bridge,  the  whole  face  of  things  was 
changed.     The  sea-colour  had  lightened  to  a 
tawny  green;  gulls  dipped  and  hovered;   away  on 
the  horizon  lay  a  soft  blue  contour.    "Land  Ho!" 
he  shouted  superbly,  and  wondered  what  new  coun- 
try he  had  discovered.     He  ran  up  a  hoist  of  red 
and  yellow  signal  flags,  and  steered  gaily  toward  the 
shore. 

It  had  grown  suddenly  cold :  he  had  to  fetch  Cap- 
tain Scottie's  pea-jacket  to  wear  at  the  wheel.  On  the 
long  spilling  crests,  that  crumbled  and  spread  running 
layers  of  froth  in  their  hurry  shoreward,  the  Pomerania 
rode  home.  She  knew  her  landfall  and  seemed  to 
quicken.  Steadily  swinging  on  the  jade-green  surges, 
she  buried  her  nose  almost  to  the  hawse-pipes,  then 
lifted  until  her  streaming  forefoot  gleamed  out  of  a 
frilled  ruffle  of  foam. 

208 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Gissing,  too,  was  eager.  A  tingling  buoyancy  and 
impatience  took  hold  of  him:  he  fidgeted  with  sheer 
eagerness  for  life.  Land,  the  beloved  stability  of  our 
dear  and  only  earth,  drew  and  charmed  him.  Behind 
was  the  senseless,  heartbreaking  sea.  Now  he  could 
discern  hills  rising  in  a  gilded  opaline  light.  In  the 


The  next  morning  he  sighted  land 

volatile  thin  air  was  a  quick  sense  of  strangeness.  A 
new  world  was  close  about  him:  a  world  that  he 
could  see,  and  feel,  and  inhale,  and  yet  knew  nothing 

of.   -•    :  :        ,:•   .:.     • -;" -      :.    <<v 

Suddenly  a  great  humility  possessed  him.     He  had 

209 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

been  froward  and  silly  and  vain.  He  had  shouted  ar- 
rogantly at  Beauty,  like  a  noisy  tourist  in  a  canyon; 
and  the  only  answer,  after  long  waiting,  had  been  the 
paltry  diminished  echo  of  his  own  voice.  He  thought 
shamefully  of  his  follies.  What  matter  how  you  name 
God  or  in  what  words  you  praise  Him?  In  this  new 
foreign  land  he  would  quietly  accept  things  as  he  found 
them.  The  laughter  of  God  was  too  strange  to  under- 
stand. 

No,  there  was  no  answer.  He  was  doubly  damned, 
for  he  had  made  truth  a  mere  sport  of  intellectual  rid- 
dling. The  mind,  like  a  spinning  flywheel  of  fatigued 
steel,  was  gradually  racked  to  bursting  by  the  conflict 
of  stresses.  And  yet:  every  equilibrium  was  an  op- 
posure  of  forces.  Rotation,  if  swift  enough,  creates 
amazing  stability :  he  had  seen  how  the  gyroscope  can 
balance  at  apparently  impossible  angles.  Perhaps  it 
was  so  of  the  mind.  If  it  twirls  at  high  speed  it  can 
lean  right  out  over  the  abyss  without  collapse.  But 
the  stationary  mind — he  thought  of  Bishop  Borzoi — 
must  keep  away  from  the  edge.  Try  to  force  it  to  the 
edge,  it  raves  in  panic.  Every  mind,  very  likely,  knows 

210 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

its  own  frailties,  and  does  well  to  safeguard  them.  At 
any  rate,  that  was  the  most  generous  interpretation. 
Most  minds,  undoubtedly,  were  uneasy  in  high  places. 
They  doubted  their  ability  to  refrain  from  jumping  off. 
How  many  bones  of  fine  intellects  lay  whitening  at  the 

foot  of  the  theological  cliff 

It  seemed  to  be  a  lonely  coast,  and  wintry.  Patches 
of  snow  lay  upon  the  hills,  the  woods  were  bare  and 
brown.  A  bottle-necked  harbour  opened  out  before 
him.  He  reduced  the  engines  to  DEAD  SLOW  and 
glided  gaily  through  the  strait.  He  had  been  anxious 
lest  his  navigation  might  not  be  equal  to  the  occasion : 
he  did  not  want  to  disgrace  himself  at  this  final  test. 
But  all  seemed  to  arrange  itself  with  enchanted  ease. 
A  steep  ledge  of  ground  offered  a  natural  pier,  with 
tree-stumps  for  bollards.  He  let  her  come  gently  be- 
yond the  spot;  reversed  the  propellers  just  at  the  right 
time,  and  backed  neatly  alongside.  He  moved  the  tele- 
graph handle  to  FINISHED  WITH  ENGINES;  ran  out  the 
gangplank  smartly,  and  stepped  ashore.  He  moored 
the  vessel  fore  and  aft,  and  hung  out  fenders  to  prevent 
chafing. 

211 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

The  first  thing  to  do,  he  said  to  himself,  is  to  get  the 
lie  of  the  land,  and  find  out  whether  it  is  inhabited. 

A  hillside  rising  above  the  water  promised  a  clear 
view.  The  stubble  grass  was  dry  and  frosty,  after  the 
warm  days  at  sea  the  chill  was  nipping;  but  what  an 
elixir  of  air!  If  this  is  a  desert  island,  he  thought,  it 
will  be  a  glorious  discovery.  His  heart  was  jocund 
with  anticipation.  A  curious  foreign  look  in  the  land- 
scape, he  thought;  quite  unlike  anything 

Suddenly,  where  the  hill  arched  against  pearly  sky, 
he  saw  a  narrow  thread  of  smoke  rising.  He  halted 
in  alarm.  Who  might  this  be,  friend  or  foe?  But 
eager  agitation  pushed  him  on.  Burning  to  know,  he 
hurried  up  to  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

The  smoke  mounted  from  a  small  bonfire  of  sticks 
in  a  sheltered  thicket,  where  a  miraculous  being — who 
was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  rather  ragged  and  dingy 
vagabond — was  cooking  a  tin  of  stew  over  the  blaze. 

Gissing  stood,  quivering  with  emotion.  Joy  such 
as  he  had  never  known  darted  through  all  the  cords  of 
his  body.  He  ran,  shouting,  in  mirth  and  terror.  In 
fear,  in  a  passion  of  love  and  knowledge  and  under- 

212 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

standing,  he  abased  himself  and  yearned  before  this 
marvel.  Impossible  to  have  conceived,  yet,  once  seen, 
utterly  satisfying  and  the  fulfilment  of  all  needs.  He 
laughed  and  leaped  and  worshipped.  When  the  first 
transport  was  over,  he  laid  his  head  against  this  being's 
knee,  he  nestled  there  and  was  content.  This  was  the 
inscrutable  perfect  answer. 

"Gripes !"  said  the  puzzled  tramp,  as  he  caressed  the 
nuzzling  head.  "The  purp's  loco.  Maybe  he's  been 
lost.  You  might  think  hejd  never  seen  a  man  be- 
fore." '|lf 

He  was  right.  ? 

And  Gissing  sat  quietly,  his  throat  resting  upon  the 
soiled  knee  of  a  very  old  and  spicy  trouser. 

"I  have  found  God,"  he  said. 

Presently  he  thought  of  the  ship.  It  would  not  do 
to  leave  her  so  insecurely  moored.  Reluctantly,  with 
many  a  backward  glance  and  a  heart  full  of  glory,  he 
left  the  Presence.  He  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  hill  to  look 
down  upon  the  harbour. 

The  outlook  was  puzzlingly  altered.  He  gazed  in 
astonishment.  What  were  those  poplars,  rising  naked 

213 


/  have  found  God,"  he  said 


214 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

into  the  bright  air? — there  was  something  familiar 
about  them.  And  that  little  house  beyond  .  .  . 
he  stared  bewildered. 

The  great  shining  breadth  of  the  ocean  had  shrunk 
to  the  roundness  of  a  tiny  pond.  And  the  Pomeraniaf 
He  leaned  over,  shaken  with  questions.  There,  be- 
side the  bank,  was  a  little  plank  of  wood,  a  child's 
plaything,  roughly  fashioned  shipshape :  two  chips  for 
funnels;  red  and  yellow  frosted  leaves  for  flags;  a 
withered  dogwood  blossom  for  propeller.  He  leaned 
closer,  with  whirling  mind.  In  the  clear  cool  surface 
of  the  pond  he  could  see  the  sky  mirrored,  deeper  than 
any  ocean,  pellucid,  infinite,  blue. 

He  ran  up  the  path  to  the  house.  The  scuffled 
ragged  garden  lay  naked  and  hard.  At  the  windows, 
he  saw  with  surprise,  were  holly  wreaths  tied  with 
broad  red  ribbon.  On  the  porch,  some  battered  toys. 
He  opened  the  door. 

A  fluttering  rosy  light  filled  the  room.  By  the  fire- 
place the  puppies — how  big  they  were! — were  sitting 
with  Mrs.  Spaniel.  Joyous  uproar  greeted  him:  they 
flung  themselves  upon  him.  Shouts  of  "Daddy! 

215 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

Daddy!"  filled  the  house,  while  the  young  Spaniels 
stood  by  more  bashfully. 

Good  Mrs.  Spaniel  was  gratefully  moved.  Her 
moist  eyes  shone  brightly  in  the  firelight. 

"I  knew  you'd  be  home  for  Christmas,  Mr.  Gissing," 
she  said.  "I've  been  telling  them  so  all  afternoon. 
Now,  children,  be  still  a  moment  and  let  me  speak. 
I've  been  telling  you  your  Daddy  would  be  home  in 
time  for  a  Christmas  Eve  story.  I've  got  to  go  and  fix 
that  plum  pudding." 

In  her  excitement  a  clear  bubble  dripped  from  the 
tip  of  her  tongue.  She  caught  it  in  her  apron,  and 
hurried  to  the  kitchen. 


216 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

THE    children    insisted    on    leading    him    all 
through  the  house  to  show  how  nicely  they  had 
taken  care  of  things.    And  in  every  room  Gis- 
sing  saw  the  marks  of  riot  and  wreckage.    There  were 
tooth-scars  on  all  furniture-legs;  the  fringes  of  rugs 
were  chewed  off;  there  were  prints  of  mud,  ink,  paints, 
and  whatnot,  on  curtains  and  wallpaper  and  coverlets. 
Poor  Mrs.  Spaniel  kept  running  anxiously  from  the 
kitchen  to  renew  apologies. 

"I  did  try  to  keep  'em  in  order,"  she  said,  "but  they 
seem  to  bash  things  when  you're  not  looking." 

But  Gissing  was  too  happy  to  stew  about  such  trifles. 
When  the  inspection  was  over,  they  all  sat  down  by  the 
chimney  and  he  piled  on  more  logs. 

"Well,  chilluns,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  want  Santa 
Glaus  to  bring  you  for  Christmas?" 

217 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 


"Anaunbile!" 
"An  elphunt!1 

"A  little  train 
with  hammers !" 


exclaimed 


Groups 
Bunks 

Yelpers 


"A  little  train  with  hammers?"  asked  Gissing. 
"What  does  he  mean?" 

"Oh,"  said  Groups  and  Bunks,  with  condes- 
cending pity,  "he  means  a  typewriter.  He  calls 
it  a  little  train  because  it  moves  on  a  track  when  you 
hit  it." 

A  painful  apprehension  seized  him,  and  he  went 
hastily  to  his  study.  He  had  not  noticed  the  type- 
writer, which  Mrs.  Spaniel  had — too  late — put  out  of 
reach.  Half  the  keys  were  sticking  upright,  jammed 
together  and  tangled  in  a  whirl  of  ribbon ;  the  carriage 
was  strangely  dislocated.  And  yet  even  this  mis- 
chance, which  would  once  have  horrified  him,  left  him 
unperturbed.  It's  my  own  fault,  he  thought :  I  should- 
n't have  left  it  where  they  could  play  with  it.  Perhaps 
God  thinks  the  same  when  His  creatures  make  a  mess 
of  the  dangerous  laws  of  life. 

218 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

"A  Christmas  story!"  the  children  were  clamouring. 

Can  it  really  be  Christmas  Eve?  Gissing  thought. 
Christmas  seems  to  have  come  very  suddenly  this  year, 
I  haven't  really  adjusted  my  mind  to  it  yet. 

"All  right/'  he  said.  "Now  sit  still  and  keep  quiet. 
Bunks,  give  Yelpers  a  little  more  room.  If  there's  any 
bickering  Santa  Claus  might  hear  it." 

He  sat  in  the  big  chair  by  the  fire,  and  the  three 
looked  upward  expectantly  from  the  hearthrug. 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  were  three  little  puppies, 
who  lived  in  a  house  in  the  country  in  the  Canine 
Estates.  And  their  names  were  Groups,  Bunks,  and 
Yelpers." 

The  three  tails  thumped  in  turn  as  the  names  were 
mentioned,  but  the  children  were  too  excitedly  ab- 
sorbed to  interrupt. 

"And  one  year,  just  before  Christmas,  they  heard  a 
dreadful  rumour." 

"What's  a  rumour?"  cried  Yelpers,  alarmed. 

This  was  rather  difficult  to  explain,  so  Gissing  did 
not  attempt  it.  He  began  again. 

"They  heard  that  Santa  Claus  might  not  be  able  to 

219 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

come  because  he  was  so  behind  with  his  housework. 
You  see,  Santa  Glaus  is  a  great  big  Newfoundland  dog 
with  a  white  beard,  and  he  lives  in  a  frosty  kennel  at  the 
North  Pole,  all  shining  with  icicles  round  the  roof  and 
windows.  But  it's  so  far  away  from  everywhere  that 
poor  Santa  couldn't  get  a  servant.  All  the  maids  who 
went  there  refused  to  stay  because  it  was  so  cold  and 
lonely,  and  so  far  from  the  movies.  Santa  Glaus  was 
busy  in  his  workshop,  making  toys;  he  was  busy  taking 
care  of  the  reindeer  in  their  snow-stables ;  and  he  didn't 
have  time  to  wash  his  dishes.  So  all  summer  he  just 
let  them  pile  up  and  pile  up  in  the  kitchen.  And  when 
Christmas  came  near,  there  was  his  lovely  house  in  a 
dreadful  state  of  untidiness.  He  couldn't  go  away  and 
leave  it  like  that.  And  so,  if  he  didn't  get  his  dishes 
washed  and  the  house  cleaned  up  for  Christmas,  all 
the  puppies  all  over  the  world  would  have  to  go  with- 
out toys.  When  Groups  and  Bunks  and  Yelpers  heard 
this,  they  were  very  much  worried." 

"How  did  they  hear  it?"  asked  Bunks,  who  was  the 
analytical  member  of  the  trio. 

"A  very  sensible  question,"  said  Gissing,  approv- 

220 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

ingly.  "They  heard  it  from  the  chipmunk  who  lives  in 
the  wood  behind  the  house.  The  chipmunk  heard  it 
underground." 

"In  his  chipmonastery?"  cried  Groups.  It  was  a 
family  joke  to  call  the  chipmunk's  burrow  by  that 
name,  and  though  the  puppies  did  not  understand  the 
pun  they  relished  the  long  word. 

"Yes,"  continued  Gissing.  "The  reindeer  in  Santa 
Claus's  stable  were  so  unhappy  about  the  dishes  not  be- 
ing washed,  and  the  chance  of  missing  their  Christmas 
frolic,  that  they  broadcasted  a  radio  message.  Their 
horns  are  very  fine  for  sending  radio;  and  the  chip- 
munk, sitting  at  his  little  wireless  outfit,  with  the  re- 
ceivers over  his  ears,  heard  it.  And  Chippy  told 
Groups  and  Bunks  and  Yelpers. 

"So  these  puppies  decided  to  help  Santa  Glaus.  They 
didn't  know  exactly  where  to  find  him,  but  the  chip- 
munk told  them  the  direction,  and  off  they  went.  They 
travelled  and  travelled,  and  when  they  came  to  the 
ocean  they  begged  a  ride  from  the  seagulls,  and  each 
one  sat  on  a  seagull's  back  just  as  though  he  was  on  a 
little  airplane.  They  flew  and  flew,  and  at  last  they 

221 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

came  to  Santa  Claus's  house.  Through  the  stable- 
walls,  which  were  made  of  clear  ice,  they  could  see  the 
reindeer  stamping  in  their  stalls.  In  the  big  workshop, 
where  Santa  Claus  was  busy  making  toys,  they  could 
hear  a  lively  sound  of  hammering.  The  big  red  sleigh 
was  standing  outside  the  stables,  all  ready  to  be  hitched 
up  to  the  reindeer. 

"They  slipped  into  Santa  Claus's  house  quickly  and 
quietly,  so  no  one  would  see  or  hear  them.  The  house 
was  in  a  terrible  state,  but  they  set  to  work  to  clean  up. 
Groups  found  the  vacuum  cleaner  and  sucked  up  all 
the  crumbs  from  the  dining-room  rug.  Bunks  ran  up- 
stairs and  made  Santa  Claus's  bed  for  him  and  swept 
the  floors  and  put  clean  towels  in  the  bathroom.  And 
Yelpers  hurried  into  the  kitchen  and  washed  the  dishes, 
and  scrubbed  the  pots,  and  polished  the  egg-stains  off 
the  silver  spoons,  and  emptied  the  ice-box  pan.  All 
working  hard,  they  got  through  very  soon,  and  made 
Santa  Claus's  house  as  clean  as  any  house  could  be. 
They  fixed  the  window-shades  so  that  they  would  all 
hang  level,  not  just  anyhow,  as  poor  Santa  had  them. 
Then,  when  everything  was  spick  and  span,  they  ran 

222 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

outdoors  again  and  beckoned  the  seagulls.  They 
climbed  on  the  gulls'  backs,  and  away  they  flew  home- 
ward." 

"Was  Santa  Glaus  pleased?"  asked  Bunks. 

"Indeed  he  was,  when  he  came  back  from  his  work- 
shop, very  tired  after  making  toys  all  day " 

"What  kind  of  toys  did  he  make?"  exclaimed  Yelp- 
ers  anxiously.  "Did  he  make  a  typewriter?" 

"He  made  every  kind  of  toy.  And  when  he  saw  how 
his  house  had  been  cleaned  up,  he  thought  the  fairies 
must  have  done  it.  He  lit  his  pipe,  and  filled  a  ther- 
mos bottle  with  hot  cocoa  to  keep  him  warm  on  his  long 
journey.  Then  he  put  on  his  red  coat,  and  his  long 
boots,  and  his  fur  cap,  and  went  out  to  harness  the  rein- 
deer. That  very  night  he  drove  off  with  his  sleigh 
packed  full  of  toys  for  all  the  puppies  in  the  world.  In 
fact,  he  was  so  pleased  that  he  loaded  his  big  bag  with 
more  toys  than  he  had  ever  carried  before.  And  that 
was  how  a  queer  thing  happened." 

They  waited  in  eager  suspense. 

"You  know,  Santa  Glaus  always  drives  into  the  Ca- 
nine Estates  by  the  little  back  road  through  the  woods, 

223 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

where  the  chipmunk  lives.  You  know  the  gateway,  at 
the  bend  in  the  lane :  well,  it's  rather  narrow,  and  Santa 
Claus's  sleigh  is  very  wide.  And  this  time,  because 
his  bag  had  so  many  toys  in  it,  the  bag  bulged  over  the 
edge  of  the  sleigh,  and  one  corner  of  the  bag  caught  on 
the  gatepost  as  he  drove  by.  Three  toys  fell  out,  and 
what  do  you  suppose  they  were?" 

"Anaunbile!" 

"Anelphunt!" 

"A  typewriter!" 

"Yes,  that's  quite  right.  And  it  happened  that  the 
chipmunk  was  out  that  night,  digging  up  some  nuts 
for  his  Christmas  dinner,  a  little  sad  because  he  had  no 
presents  to  give  his  children;  and  he  found  the  three 
toys.  He  took  them  home  to  the  little  chipmunks,  and 
they  were  tremendously  pleased.  That  was  only  fair, 
because  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  chipmunk  and  his 
radio  set,  no  one  would  have  had  any  toys  that 
Christmas." 

"Did  Santa  Glaus  have  any  more  typewriters  in  his 
bag?"  asked  Yelpers  gravely. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  had  plenty  more  of  everything.  And 

224 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

when  he  got  to  the  house  where  Groups  and  Bunks  and 
Yelpers  lived,  he  slid  down  the  chimney  and  took  a 
look  round.  He  didn't  see  any  crumbs  on  the  floor, 
or  any  toys  lying  about  not  put  away,  so  he  filled  the 
stockings  with  all  kinds  of  lovely  things,  and  an  aun- 
bile  and  an  elphunt  and  a  typewriter." 

"What  did  the  puppies  say?"  they  inquired. 

"They  were  sound  asleep  upstairs,  and  didn't  know 
anything  about  it  until  Christmas  morning.  Come  on 
now,  it's  time  for  bed." 

"We  can  undress  ourselves  now,"  said  Groups. 

"Will  you  tuck  me  in?"  said  Bunks. 

"You're  sure  he  had  another  typewriter  in  his  bag?" 
said  Yelpers. 

They  scrambled  upstairs. 

Later,  when  the  house  was  quiet,  Gissing  went  out 
to  the  kitchen  to  see  Mrs.  Spaniel.  She  was  diligently 
rolling  pastry,  and  her  nose  was  white  with  flour. 

"Oh,  sir,  I'm  glad  you  got  home  in  time  for  Christ- 
mas," she  said.  "The  children  were  counting  on  it. 
Did  you  have  a  successful  trip,  sir?" 

"Every  trip  is  successful  when  you  get  home  again," 

225 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

said  Gissing.  "I  suppose  the  shops  will  be  open  late 
to-night,  won't  they?  I'm  going  to  run  down  to  the 
village  to  get  some  toys." 

Before  leaving  the  house,  he  went  down  to  the  cellar 
to  see  if  the  furnace  was  all  right.  He  was  amazed  to 
see  how  naturally  and  cheerfully  he  had  slipped  back 
into  the  old  sense  of  responsibility.  Where  was  the 
illusory  freedom  he  had  dreamed  of?  Even  the  epiph- 
any on  the  hilltop  now  seemed  a  distant  miracle.  That 
fearful  happiness  might  never  come  again.  And  yet 
here,  among  the  familiar  difficult  minutiae  of  home, 
what  a  lightness  he  felt.  A  great  phrase  from  the 
prayer-book  came  to  his  mind — "Whose  service  is  per- 
fect freedom." 

Ah,  he  said  to  himself,  it  is  all  very  well  to  wear  a 
crown  of  thorns,  and  indeed  every  sensitive  creature 
carries  one  in  secret.  But  there  are  times  when  it 
ought  to  be  worn  cocked  over  one  ear. 

He  opened  the  furnace  door.  A  bright  glow  filled 
the  fire-box:  he  could  hear  a  stir  and  singing  in  the 
boiler,  and  the  rustle  of  warm  pipes  that  chuckled 
quietly  through  winter  nights  of  storm.  Over  the  coals 

226 


WHERE  THE  BLUE  BEGINS 

hovered  a  magic  evasive  flicker,  the  very  soul  of 
fire.  It  was  a  pentecostal  flame,  perfect  and  heavenly 
in  tint,  the  essence  of  pure  colour,  a  clear  immortal 
blue. 


227 


